Ghosts That We Knew
by ILoVeWicked
Summary: Since entering the 74th Annual Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen's life has been defined by her titles. From tribute, to Star-Crossed Lover, to Victor, the newly crowned Mockingjay must grapple with the difficult task of leading a rebellion all while coming to terms with her newest title: Mother. Set during Mockingjay with elements of AU. Told in various characters' POV. Read & enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**Hey there! It's been a while since I've written anything, so I'm VERY rusty, but I have recently become a huge fan of this series and this idea/concept, although it probably seems overdone, was calling out to me. I had a lot of free time this summer, so I decided to write it down. My writing is probably a poor reflection of the idea, so for that I'm sorry in advance. Basically, it takes place after the Quarter Quell and follows Mockingjay with some of my own alterations, the big one obviously being Katniss' pregnancy. I tried to stay as close to the plot of the book as best as I could, but some things needed to be switched around and changed for this fic's purpose. Each chapter will be told in the POV of a different character with flashbacks here and there. The title is inspired by Mumford and Son's song "Ghosts That We Knew". Hope you enjoy, review, etc! I'll do my best to update if you guys are into it! Thank you!**

**-ILoVeWicked**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing! **

**Chapter 1**

**Katniss**

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. My home is District Twelve. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped. The Capitol hates me. I was in the Quarter Quell. The arena exploded. I…I…_

_I don't remember what happens next._

It starts out as a droning hum. As my eyes begin to flutter open, the hum has transformed into a steady beep, evenly spaced and strangely rhythmic. I am now awake, wide eyed and staring into the tile of a white ceiling that I altogether do not recognize but at the same time contains the odd familiarity of tile I have seen many times before. Hospital quarters. The beeps are spread out in intervals of five seconds. They never lull, they never drag. Like intricate clockwork.

Clockwork…

I jolt upward, my head suddenly feeling like the contents of the clock-shaped arena that I managed to explode with my arrow. My muscles are sore, bile burns the edges of my esophagus, and my bones feel brittle, like tiny glass animals captured inside of a glass menagerie.

Like twenty-four tributes, twenty-four past victors, trapped inside of an arena.

The thought finally strikes me that I do not know where I am. Besides the obvious indications that I am being held in some sort of hospital, of course, my exact location is unknown. Am I at home, in District Twelve? I shake my head at the unlikely possibility. Even with the upscale Victor's Village being my new residence, nowhere in District Twelve is a room this sterile and without the familiar sheen of coal dust coating the room's crevices.

Am I under the strict watch of the Capitol? The Capitol wants me dead. It's one of the truest and scariest statements in my introduction that I continually have repeated to myself over the course of the year. If I had miraculously made it out of the arena alive, and the Capitol's hovercraft had been the one to lift me from my crumbling surroundings, why haven't they executed me yet?

The answer is startling, and it injects a shiver into my now convulsing body, powerful enough to shake the very marrow of my bones: they are waiting. They want me alive and well. They want my execution to take place live, in a way that I may experience the pain, the agony, the darkness of death.

My mind is suddenly flooded with the frightened faces of those I can no longer save. Prim hugs her ribcage, body racked with sobs while my stoic mother stares blankly once again into the abyss of death. Gale, his mother Hazelle, his siblings Rory, Vick and little Posy, huddled together in fear. Fear for the lives of their own Hawthorne clan as well as the Everdeen clan I have left behind. Gale's face in particular strikes me. His dark features, his intense stare, and how they nearly disintegrated into his battered, raw body as it lay on my kitchen table the night I chose him. The kiss wasn't enough. And neither was our final argument about running away before the Quell could take hold of me once again. There were words between us that would never be able to be exchanged. Especially after the Quell had been announced. After I had betrayed him.

A long, pinkish scar on my forearm conjures up memories of Johanna Mason, and her knife digging into my flesh, her frantic movements reminding me faintly of Foxface in that moment. Also appearing is chiseled face and body of Finnick Odiar and the focused, wise eyes of Beetee. Had they all survived the explosion? Or were they already sacrificed to the Capitol for their lack of subservience? Worse, I muse, had their involvement with the Capitol been a carefully hidden secret in order to contribute to my eminent demise?

Their loyalty is blurry to me. As blurry as the events of that final evening.

Those who were less fortunate also raid my brain. Madge's twitching body makes me shut my eyes to remove the sting in remembering Finnick's agonized face as he lost his beloved mentor. Wiress' tinny "tick tock" matches the cadence of the machine at my side. Cinna, in all of his simplistic, noble glory, beaten, battered, and bruised right before my eyes just as I entered the arena. The fervent beating inflicted on my stylist by Capitol surely indicates his death, but a glimmer of hope swells in my chest as I hold on to the unknown that he may have pulled through and survived.

My mind wanders to the face I have been trying to avoid subconsciously. His eyes fill my clouded memory first. Soft, blue eyes that grew suddenly hard when topics he was most passionate about arose. Around the eyes begins to form the familiar outline of his delicate facial features: the curve of his jawline, the small arch on the bridge of his nose, the wrinkles of his forehead when he was in deep thought, and the curtain of shaggy blonde locks covering his eyebrows.

Even if I tried, that face could not be removed from my memory. It was the face that plagued both my dreams and my nightmares. The face that I had taken so much time to study. Especially after the Quell had been announced, I remind myself again, wincing. Especially after I betrayed Gale.

Heart in my throat, I squeak out his name, uttering the first word I have said in who knows how long, "Peeta".

The nausea from earlier resurfaces and I ease my quivering body back down onto the narrow hospital bed. I am so consumed by my thoughts that I fail to notice how the beeping of the machine beside me has drastically picked up its pace. The calming metronome of what I now realize is a heart monitor has spiraled out of control. Flashes of red and green and yellow dot my eyes and nearly blind me as I suddenly begin to thrash around in the bed, ripping tubes from my wrists and my nasal cavities and clawing at what is left of my broken heart.

They won't take me, I decide. I'd rather die now than let them take me.

A swarm of men and women in white surround my bed, shouting commands at each other that even I can barely hear over my shrieks. Two burly men pin me down by the arms. One grabs me directly over Johanna's wound and triggers a shooting pain that transfers all the way into my brain. I scream louder and attempt to jerk my head up to bite one of the men in white.

But as I do, I catch a glimpse of a familiar untucked tail of a shirt. Prim's eyes are wide, her face is frantic, but her hands remain steady as she injects a syringe into my back.

Whether or not my sister has betrayed me or the Capitol is continuing to toy with my mind, I do not know. Because my world suddenly goes black once again.

THGTHGTHG

When I awake, the beeping has once again steadied. The tubes have been restored to my arms and face and the sheets on my bed have been folded over my chest snuggly instead of sitting at a mangled heap at my feet. My mind, however, has not erased the image of what appeared to be my sister assisting in knocking me out amidst a swarm of white lab suits. No, I think. Prim would never join the Capitol willingly. I shudder at the thought of my sister being used as a human prop in my death plot.

I groan and there is a light knock on the door. I suspect a doctor coming to take a look at the might-as-well-be-dead girl and resist even bothering to go through the effort of lifting my head. Instead, I turn to face the wall, away from the intruder.

I'll take any opportunity to act in defiance that I can muster up.

"Oh good, you're up," the sing-songy, almost mocking tone of Finnick Odair chimes. My eyes become unblinking orbs and I rocket upward once again. The room starts to spin and Finnick's strong hands are on either side of me, steadying me and preventing me from falling out of the bed.

"Careful, Katniss. Katniss, it's me. It's Finnick," he says soothingly. I brush a wisp of hair from my eyes and peer into his own eyes, as blue as the ocean he calls home. There is relief, happiness, and a twinge of guilt in his gaze.

He is roaming free, and as far as I know, he is not coming at me with any syringes. He seems safe. I am not letting down my guard, however. If the Capitol is behind this and has control of Prim, who's to say Finnick Odair, the Capitol's pet himself, isn't involved?

Yet, at the same time, the way he stares me down sincerely leads me to trust him, even if it causes just a little crack in the armor. There are suddenly so many questions I want to ask him about where we are, who has us captive, where the others are. Where specifically _one _other is. But my thought's jumble together like a newfangled knot and all I can utter out is a meek, "What's going on?"

Finnick laughs. The sound is airy, like his belly laugh as he taunted with me with a sugar cube just weeks before the Quell, but there is a tentative undertone in his laughter that is now unmistakable.

"You probably have a lot of questions. I know I did. Let's get you into a chair and I'll take you to see Haymitch."

Haymitch. A face that I had forgotten to think about before suddenly ravishes my memory with hope. If Haymitch is in my proximity, Finnick, myself, and even Peeta must be safe, right.

After Finnick wheels me down several unfamiliar corridors that resemble neither District Twelve nor the Capitol, I am brought into what appears to be a control room with my once trustworthy mentor, a woman with a taught, wrinkly face and pristine white hair, and Plutarch Heavensbee, the creator of the arena that I destroyed.

"There she is: Sleeping Beauty!" Haymitch drunkenly jokes, whiskey still in his hand. His alcoholism is sadly the only thing in my life that has remained consistent since my awakening. He stands and tumbles toward me, but I curl into myself and impulsively reach for Finnick's arm. Finnick, however, has disappeared from my side and has taken a place at the table beside the older woman.

My hands ball themselves into fists, and I venomously repeat the question I asked Finnick earlier to Haymitch, "What's going on?"

"Ms. Everdeen, allow me to explain," says the woman, rising from her place at the table and obviously sensing the hunger in my eyes as I think of the best angle to punch my former mentor in the face. I cannot read this woman as easily as she reads me. Everything about her is a grey cloud of ambiguity. "My name is President Alma Coin, and I am the leader of District Thirteen."

Bonnie and Twill, the two women from District Eight that I met in the woods before the Quell, suddenly emerge in my mind, their elaborate plan to escape to the rendered fictional District that nearly everyone had shaken off and deemed nonexistent. I dismissively lower my head, knowing that Bonnie and Twill's chances of survival were about as slim as my own during that pivotal time.

"District Thirteen is gone," I state matter-of-factly to the woman. If this is the Capitol's way of getting me to fall for their plan, they need to find better actors than the alleged President standing before me. President Coin chuckles ever so slightly and glances back at Plutarch, who I haven't been able to look into the eyes of on account of feeling extremely and unnecessarily guilty for destroying his precious clock. Coin continues speaking.

"Or so the Capitol thinks. Years after the war, District Thirteen began to rebuild itself into a nation bigger and stronger than before. However, construction took place underground in order to go undetected. Our main goal, of course, has been to overthrow the Capitol." As she says this, the corners of her mouth upturn into a twisted smirk.

Plutarch Heavensbee neglects to rise when he begins to speak. His tone is hushed, yet bristling with excitement, and I am immediately unnerved. "That's where people like me come in. The Rebels, we're called. I constructed the arena in hopes that you would figure out the clock shape and the force field, which you did with ease, my dear." He says this as if I deserve some sort of medal for exploding my fellow victors and for risking my life, as if I've already agreed to take on the new nickname of 'Rebel'. I think about the night of my engagement party, when he showed off his pocket watch, and glower at him.

"So you knew? You knew all of this was going to happen?" I ask, directing the question to anyone who cared to answer, since my trust in each of them had diminished greatly.

Haymitch bows his head. Suddenly his words, "_Remember who the real enemy is_" contain a bitter irony. "Yes, Katniss. Unfortunately, I knew it for a while. Whether or not I went into that arena, I was going to be involved in some way."

"I knew too," Finnick admits, averting his eyes. "So did Johanna, which explains her jabbing your arm to remove your tracker. Beetee knew as well. The victors from three, four, six, seven, eight, and eleven were all somewhat informed before going into the Quell."

My jaw has plummeted downward. The alliances, the elaborate plan with the Lightening Tree…It all makes perfect sense now. My cheeks have turned crimson in embarrassment that I let each of the people in this room use me as a marionette doll, a toy in their own twisted game of rebellion.

"So what you're saying is that I was the only one not in on this sick joke, then?" I ask icily. Traces of a slight smile tug at one corner of Haymitch's mouth.

"Well," he says, "we needed some level of innocence to get the job done right. You were never a very good actress, sweetheart."

I am about to lunge at him when Coin speaks up.

"Ms. Everdeen, you may not realize this, but you have become a symbol of resistance, and you didn't have to lie or cheat your way into doing it. Your act against the Capitol with the nightlock last Games was entirely your own doing and not someone else's ploy. To taint you with any falsity would have been too risky. But you haven't been acting alone. The unrest has always been there. The Rebels have come from all Districts and the Capitol alike for years now, taking numbers to join our cause. You have been the spark of the revolution we have been waiting for. The Mockingjay, they are calling you. We have been building up resistance in each of the Districts, and as you are well aware, many of the Districts have begun uprisings."

"One of them," Haymitch chimes in, "was District Twelve."

"You said that District Twelve would most likely never rise," I assert, jabbing an accusing finger at Haymitch. "That we'd never get enough people to band together…"

"Well, enough people did. There were uprisings all over the District. The Capitol, unfortunately retaliated and bombed the District as soon as the Games ended. Only a few lucky hundred survived," Haymitch retorts bitterly, knowing that each word continues to twist the knife that feels like it has wedged its way into my chest.

For what seems like ages, I am paralyzed. All at once, I am overwhelmed with grief. I sink to the ground, my breath hitching and sobs racking my body. Prim and my mother, the two people I made sure to protect with every move I made, gone. Madge, my unspoken ally and only female cohort, blown to smithereens. Gale, the boy I told myself that I loved, lost forever. What was his last action, his last thought, I wonder. Did he die in the woods, where he was truly happy? Was he thinking of me as his final moments ticked by? Did he die trying to protect his family as they huddled in his strong arms? I think of Posy's tiny eyes wide with fear as she is engulfed in flames and the sobs come on stronger.

Flames. I am the Girl on Fire. I am responsible for this, on some level. Haymitch and Finnick are at either side of me, trying to soothe me in my desolate state, Finnick with his warm hand on my shoulder and Haymitch lowering his flask to his side and sitting awkwardly beside me on the floor.

"Ms. Everdeen. Ms. Everdeen. Katniss," President Coin breaks in, easing the moment of hysteria. "I know exactly what you're thinking. Your friend, Gale Hawthorne, his family, your friend Madge, and your mother and sister were among those that _survived_. Mr. Hawthorne and Ms. Undersee led a group of hundreds through the woods and they are now members of our rebel forces to honor them for their bravery. That group was the only group from District Twelve to survive the attack. Others, such as Mayor Undersee and the Mellark family, were less fortunate."

I sigh with relief and let a euphoric laugh escape my lips. They're safe, I cheer to myself. Everyone I love is safe. For Peeta, who has lost his entire family, this is not the case. I wonder how Peeta has taken the news.

"Most of the survivors came from the Seam," Haymitch adds. But I am no longer listening, for President Coin's mentioning of one word has sparked my interest and all I can think about is the boy with the bread. Beside his father, his family may have not been the most affectionate, but Peeta surely loved them.

"Peeta," I croak. "Where is he?" The four of them are suddenly at a loss for words as their eyelids flutter in bewilderment, as if I would not have asked eventually. They play in a game of a four-way staring contest to see who will speak first, and just by watching them alone, I assume the worst.

Peeta is dead. The hysteria begins to creep back into my throat and I fight to suppress it. Haymitch is the brave one who utters the words:

"We don't know. Our hovercraft was unable to lift him, Enobaria, and Johanna in time. As far as we know, Capitol has all of them in custody."

Suddenly, all of the thoughts I had conjured up for myself when I thought the Capitol had taken me resurface and are multiplied, like the tidal wave in the arena that struck at eleven o'clock. My sadness quickly morphs into anger as I realize that Peeta was not in on the scheme either. He didn't know a damned thing about District Thirteen and its plot. He was just as important to the plan as I was, but not important enough to be the Mockingjay. Not important enough to be saved.

"They have Annie, too. I know they do," Finnick chokes out. I can tell that the levis holding back his tears are bound to break at any second. "Not because she knows anything. But because they know it will hurt me. They have to be hurting all of them, I just know it. They're better off dead at this point."

"Odair, control yourself. We talked about this," Haymitch snaps. He turns his attention to me. "Katniss, I'm sorry. We tried—"

I send a heated glare in the direction of Haymitch, who had promised, albeit behind each of our backs to keep us under the impression that we were protecting each other, that he would save us both.

"Don't even say it. Don't you say you tried _everything._ Peeta is the one who did everything to try and save me, to try and save _you. _And _you_ couldn't save _him_?" I manage through gritted teeth.

Before Haymitch can even consider making a move or saying a word, I spring into action, landing on top of him and tearing his shirt sleeve clean off. I remain straddled over his legs on the floor of the control room, rabid, enraged, clawing at his face and punching him directly in the nose. He is probably so numb due to the alcohol that he cannot feel the pain. He cannot feel _my _pain.

It takes Plutarch, Coin, Finnick, and a guard to pry me from Haymitch's powerless body. Had Peeta not volunteered for him and had there not been a secret rebellion occurring behind the scenes, Haymitch Abernathy would have met his demise in the Quarter Quell. I am shrieking obscenities and still swinging my arms for what feels like hours until exhaustion and my own injuries cause me to give in to my weakness. Slumped against the chair I have been pinned to, I remove my gaze from everyone and instead to focus on the palm of my hand, smoothed over and erased of any bloodshed, the palm that once held Peeta's pearl.

When I look up, my stomach churns. Finnick is crying silently, turned away from me in the corner of the room with silent tears rolling down his cheeks. Coin and Plutarch are staring at each other with an indistinguishable emotion betwixt them. I swear I see a hint of something giddy being exchanged in their energies and clench my fists.

Haymitch, ice now being held to his swollen eye socket, glares at me. I cannot see it, but I can certainly feel his disdain. "Now that we have _that _out of our system," he remarks, as if he was expecting to be pounded on, "why don't _you _have a turn at explaining something to all of us, Sweetheart."

"What the hell are you talking about, Haymitch?" I spit out without so much as a glance upward. "Clearly, I wasn't good enough to keep _this_ dirty little secret, so I can't really explain anything to you that you all aren't already aware of. I'm supposed to be the innocent one, remember?"

"Dirty little secret! Innocent one!" Haymitch exclaims, mocking me, with a bitter laugh. "Like you don't know!"

"Haymitch, please," Coin says. "I think she may legitimately not know."

"How could she not have?" Plutarch asks skeptically. "Mellark even admitted it to Flickerman. They had to have known."

"Mellark was protecting Katniss and winning over the Capitol's sympathy. If he knew, then she would have had to have told him. And if she knew, then this would be the first thing she would be asking about. Clearly, this is not the case," Coin retorts, her calculative answer not adding up for me. Her cold, bony hand is suddenly under my chin, tilting it upward and forcing me to gaze into her hard gray eyes. The eyes frighten me. They force me to listen, even if I don't want to, because they have bored into my soul and latched on.

"Katniss," she says gently, using my first name for only the second time, as if it is the only thing that will get me to take her seriously. "You were unconscious for about four weeks after the games, but do you know why you were considered an extremely critical medical case and you had to be held in special quarters, away from Finnick and Beetee? Do you know your current state?"

"Current state? I'm no more messed up than Beetee or Finnick. In fact, I think my 'current state' is the state of being ready to kill all of you for not saving Peeta," I hiss as I jerk my chin from her grasp.

"Shit," Haymitch whines as he lowers his ice pack. Behind the large scratch that trails down his face, there is a look of pure stun and guilt dancing across his features that I have only seen once before, when Peeta volunteered for him at the reaping. "She really doesn't know."

I am sick of being left out of yet another secret circle, so I stand and shout, "What is it that I don't know Haymitch? What's the big secret this time?"

The room is painfully silent for what feels like hours before Finnick clears his throat.

"Katniss," he speaks up gently, "you're four months pregnant."

_Impossible._ That's all I can think. The word branded in my starry, dizzy vision. The word bursts into flames as I stare down at my stomach. Since regaining consciousness, I have failed to notice the small curve of something, _someone_, forming there.

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. My home is District Twelve. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped. The Capitol hates me. I was in the Quarter Quell. The arena exploded. _

_I am pregnant. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Chapter 2**

**Haymitch**

I truly thought the kid was pulling my leg.

Had I known she was not aware that she royally screwed herself and the rebellion over by getting knocked up, I would have packed a much lighter punch. I take a swig of copper colored whiskey from my flask and suck in a deep breath as I watch Katniss Everdeen, the Girl on Fire, begin to internally combust at the sudden news of her pregnancy.

"But I can't be—it's impossible. Peeta made that up in the final interviews. The pregnancy bit was fake. And we only_…_," she trails off. Her knees finally begin to stop quivering under her. Her jaw begins to unhinge itself from its clenched position, and she whispers, "it only happened once."

The laugh that comes from my throat is laced with acidic scorn. The girl is smart. And I don't mean book smart. She's incredibly street smart. She outwitted the Capitol and managed to figure out the kinks in Plutarch's arena without a second thought to any of it. When it comes to this topic, however—a touchy conversation her mother should have had with her years ago instead of leaving it to me and President Coin, I may add—the girl is about as jaded from reality as the yuppies of the Capitol.

"Once is all it takes, Sweetheart," I reply.

Katniss looks like she is about to stumble backward and Finnick Odair rushes to her aid, standing at attention behind her.

I decide not to chide her any longer. I don't even bother asking about the baby daddy. If Hawthorne punching a wall when the news was delivered wasn't enough of an indication that the baker's bun was literally in Katniss' oven, I would have pried for more information just to hear her admit to the act. With enough sleepless nights of screaming fits, pattering feet traveling back and forth, and hearing almost every strained conversation through thin walls during two Hunger Games and a Victory Tour, I was able to use my context clues quickly after the discovery of the child as to who the father was.

What I cannot figure out is my error. When the nightly routine suddenly deviated from its usual course and the walls suddenly became thicker, where I failed as a mentor and an involuntary stand-in parent to protect them from growing up too quickly.

_Well, _I add to myself with unpleasant hostility, _the way that _normal _teenagers that aren't coping with post-traumatic stress grow up, that is_.

One thing is for certain. Whether or not she loves that boy as much as he loves her, especially the night of that fateful "once", the stakes of finding Peeta and returning him safely have been raised beyond their already-drastic level. That fact has been eating away at us, at me, ever since we were unable to rescue him in the arena. I had been hoping, praying that by the time Katniss woke up, we would have a solution ready for her. Time in Thirteen, however, seems to be secondary to strategy. I have nothing to offer her.

And here we are, a month later, with no Mellark and a girl whose job description is about to go from 'revolutionary' to 'mother' in a matter of months.

I huff in frustration, the alcohol amplifying my confusing thoughts. As if the odds weren't in our favor already, let's throw in an extra, infant-sized bundle of baggage.

Katniss blinks wildly and turns her gaze upward to avoid breaking down and shattering her wall of bravery, which has been pitifully beaten to a pile of rubble since her awakening. Finnick's tears are free-falling, splattering against the tile of the control room with a sickening _splat_. The alcohol has numbed me, yet something pangs in the back of my mind as a reminder that the entire situation should be upsetting.

We're a sad, dysfunctional trio of tributes, Katniss, Finnick, and I—well, we're a foursome, if you count the spawn. I shake my head. Calling ourselves victors never seemed to cut it; in my eyes, once you go into that arena, you're always a tribute to some degree. Even after the fighting ceases, the game rages on.

I let the amber fluid burn my throat as it slithers down into the pit of my stomach and stems into the wiring of my brain. The alcohol is what is causing me to deliver the tough love in the heat of the moment, I remind myself. It is what causes the line to blur between my anger toward Katniss and Peeta's stupidity and my own resentment toward myself for not being able to shelter them. I should be more understanding, I realize. But again, it's the alcoholic in me that is causing me to frown in disapproval, not the quivering, soft shell of a man that I am when I'm sober.

The girl has lost her Peeta—I've given up trying to call him her boyfriend, or even her friend, because I had abandoned the world of teenage hormones a long while ago and I had no intentions of returning any time soon—and gained the one thing she has always sworn she would avoid: a child. Being alone for the rest of your life is predictable, safe, comforting, even. Having to worry about someone else's life? Well, that's when the greatest dangers come into play, the greatest fears become realities.

I don't blame her for the thought that others may deem her as selfish for having, for I know I share her mentality. Marriage, kids…I will have none of it. Once I became a tribute twenty-five years ago, whatever plans I may have had to travel down that road were moot and the road of solitude beckoned me forward.

I promised myself that I would never look back once I made my choice, and that I would lead a loner's life with a bottle and a knife as my two best and only friends. For twenty-four years, I was content to live this way. Sad, alone, and a pitiful, drunken mess, but content nonetheless. It's not like I had anyone left to stop me. Then those brats with the berries came along and challenged everything I thought I knew, even my drinking habits.

I know I should have sympathy for the girl I am perpetually finding pieces of my former self in. I know I should yearn for the boy who was ten times the mentor I would ever measure up to be. They have become my family. They have joined me at the fork in the road, proving to me that a life alone, with a drink as my only company, was no longer an option. It was either go with them or let them drag me along for the ride.

But I feel nothing. Nothing but the whiskey burning the lining of my intestines and keeping my mind moving in a dizzying circular pattern that I have come to know as the euphoric feeling of weightlessness. Lately, however, the feeling of defying gravity has become less euphoric and more like isolation, especially in this particular moment. I feel like I loom over the action taking place in the control room, like I am not physically present.

"Katniss," Coin speaks level-headedly, as if calming down emotional political symbols is merely part of the schedule inked on her arm, "I'm terribly sorry that you were not aware of the situation, but yes, you are expecting a child in a few short months. As you can imagine, this news came to all of us as a shock, too. But according to our sources, the Capitol is under the impression that you miscarried the child that Peeta made up while the arena crashed. We've spent the past few months trying to figure out how to use this knowledge to our advantage and keep the real baby out of harm's way all while you continue to be our Mockingjay."

"That is, if she even _agrees_ to being our Mockingjay," Plutarch interjects. Katniss is visibly upset with Heavensbee referring to her in the third person while she is a mere ten feet away from him and crosses her arms over her chest.

"Don't you people think you've messed with me enough?" she hisses, hand protectively flying to her stomach. "Don't you think getting Peeta back is more important than a rebellion that is bound to fail against the Capitol, against Snow? Making me 'your Mockingjay' puts the father of this child and the innocent lives of parents and their children everywhere in danger. I can't handle that. I can't be responsible for any more deaths."

At this point, she is sobbing again, her body suddenly looking smaller as it curls into Finnick's arms. As he rocks her, fighting back his own tears, I hear the strained and concerned voices of Plutarch and Coin expressing their concern behind me.

"Just as I expected. She's unstable, Alma. Completely off her rocker. We can't use her," Plutarch attempts to whisper, but he's about as subtle as a stampede.

I can sense Coin's eyebrows knitting together behind my back as she retorts, explaining to Plutarch that they're in too deep with their plans to use Katniss to dispose of her now. As uncomfortable as it is for me to hear the two of them discuss the fate of my tribute, Coin has a point. Even while she was unconscious and being treated, Katniss and her courageous acts against the Capitol have let loose the horses of this rebellion. Footage of her bravery in the Quarter Quell has been broadcast and watched countless times all over Panem.

"Well then, what do you suggest we do?" Plutarch replies through gritted teeth.

"We persist."

The tone of her voice, a robotic conviction, sends shivers down my spine and causes me to take another drink. There has always been something odd about the leader of District Thirteen, some dark ulterior motive that she seems to be hiding from everyone else, but I shrug it off as drunken speculation. I'm suspicious of everyone when I'm under the influence.

Coin has moved in front of me now, to stand before Katniss.

"Katniss," she begins, straying from all formality, "the revolution needs you. We need you. Your District needs you, both old and new. While you were recovering from your injuries sustained in the arena, the nation took to your bravery as a symbol. Of what, I cannot truly say, but from what I have seen, your image conjures up hope. And hope is one of the most powerful things a human being can hold onto. If you do not become the Mockingjay and agree to cooperate with the rebellion, all hope is lost, and there is no telling where the nation will be after that. I don't expect you to agree with everything I am saying, but I do hope that you understand just how pivotal of a position you are in. And I don't expect you to side with us right away and instantly call yourself a rebel, either, but think for just a moment about what the Capitol has cost you, before _and _after _both _Hunger Games. They have taken enough from you, and it's time to get it back. So what do you say, will you join us?"

As her speech draws to a close and she extends her bony arm in Katniss' direction, I resist the urge to give Coin a standing ovation. With an impromptu speech like that, it's no wonder that she is the President of Thirteen. Coin could easily take over as resident Mockingjay. But there's something a little more hopeful about a Girl on Fire than a politician, I muse.

My eyes are fixated on Katniss as she begins to uncoil. I can see the cogs and wheels in that head of hers turning viciously as impulse overrides her apprehension and she takes Coin's hand. Plutarch Heavensbee practically wheezes with relief and Finnick Odair shuffles his feet. I take another drink.

"I accept, but on several conditions," Katniss finally says, suddenly having hardened up again. That's my girl. Coin's mouth forms a befuddled line.

"One: the remaining victors go unharmed. I don't care what the Capitol makes them say or do, District Thirteen does not lay a finger on Peeta Mellark, Johanna Mason, Annie Cresta, and even Enobaria."

"There's no telling what the Capitol will do with them, but if the District is put in danger by any of them…"

"Then the District should do all that it can to save its _allies_ so that it isn't put in that position."

"Very well, I'll make sure that we do our best," Coin breathes out almost reluctantly as she beckons a guard with a notepad at hand over to scribble Katniss' demands down.

"Two: I can hunt aboveground. With Gale."

"In a few weeks, we'll allow an hour every other day into your schedule, but you must agree to be under watch and to not go more than a hundred yards outside of our district," Coin fires back almost immediately, her reasoning skills measuring up to her speech-making ability.

"Alright." Katniss' shoulders roll back and her chin juts forward. Her body stands at attention with newfound confidence. My mind wanders back to the last time I saw her standing this proudly, in the chariot during her first tribute parade. The only noticeable, physical difference—emotionally…I won't even begin to go there—between then and now is unmistakable baby bump.

"And three—," she hestitates, and I can feel her confidence beginning to falter. For a brief moment, her eyes lock with mine, two pairs of gray Seam eyes peering into each other's souls. One pair tenacious, ferocious, even. The other glazed over with whiskey and having seen too much. I can sense that she is looking to me for the insurance to go on.

Now, it is my turn to falter. Not only am I too drunk to stand back up, let alone move my ice pack over my still throbbing scratch, but I have no clue as to what she is about to ask of the President. Usually, Katniss and I are on the same page, but for all I know, she could be asking for permission to name her first born after some plant or for an all-access pass to the kitchen to ravage upon whenever she damn well pleases.

Without thinking much further, I nod slightly. We've made tougher decisions together in the past.

"Third," Katniss repeats. Her stare is a hair-raising combination of icy, hot fury. "I want to kill Snow when the time comes."

Coin's laugh is suddenly airy. I can tell that killing Snow was reserved in Coin's mind as her special task long before Everdeen even came into the picture. "When the time comes, we'll discuss."

"And all of these will be broadcasted live, to the entire District, so I know that you will not go back on these promises to me," Katniss adds. Coin sighs.

"Very well."

I watch the tribute and the rebel leader set their promises in stone with a hand shake and I feel something ignite within the pit of my stomach. The rebellion has officially started.

I continue to watch the scene unfold from afar like a fly on the wall as Coin asks Katniss if there is anything else she wants before she is shown to her living quarters, and Katniss replies that yes, there is. She wants to visit the remains of District Twelve.

I take another swig of my drink.

Even if it is for a brief moment, we're going home.

* * *

**A/N: Hello again! I had this chapter already finished so I thought I'd stick it up sooner! Thanks so much for the favs and follows thus far, I appreciate it! If you can, please feel free to leave a review, because I'd love to get some feedback on this :)**

**-ILoVeWicked**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Sorry about the repost on this! There was some editing that I missed and so I decided to fix it. Sorry for any inconvenience! **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Chapter 3**

**Primrose**

My hands are still shaking when I rush from the infirmary and into a nearby secluded hallway. I clench a rag in between my teeth to keep my screams from echoing as my body slides down the wet, earthy walls of the corridor, convulsing with oncoming sobs that test my lurching stomach. I pull my legs to my chest and begin to rock—forward, backward—repeating verses of _Deep in the Meadow _to myself in order to calm my nerves.

Katniss, my brave older sister, screaming and thrashing helplessly. Katniss, my second mother, with my future niece or nephew inside of her. Katniss, my best friend, going weak and limp in my arms as I jabbed a sedative of morphling into her shoulder. I try to shake the image from my mind and feverishly wipe my tears away, but it is no use. I still see my sister's terrified eyes, her pupils dilated so intensely that they appeared black as bottomless pits, when she recognized that it was me hurting her.

I had been working in the first-aid station for weeks, before they had even brought my sister into the intensive care unit. I was grateful to be there, to be able to have the opportunity to do the one thing I have always felt best at and have always had control over: medicine.

I cannot control my innate nature to care for other living creatures. I cannot control that I am not a fighter, like my sister. I cannot control that my name was the one called at the reaping of the 74th Annual Hunger Games, nor that my sister volunteered for me, thus altering the lives of everyone I know and care about.

But medicine, my knowledge of it, and my ability to heal with it is entirely within my control.

Until the incident today, that is. My skills in the first-aid station earned me great praise from the doctors whom I had been admiring from afar at my station in first-aid long before they recognized me for my exceptional skill. Just a week before, I was promoted into the intensive care wing of the hospital with my mother to care for patients in desperate need of our services. In one short week, I learned so much about the medical world that I aspire to be a part of, gaining first-hand experience in my specialty. I assisted patients, running the gamut of disease and injury, constantly. Their thankful eyes, the sterile scent of the intensive care unit, and the encouraging smiles of my peers brought me peace. For once in my life, I was not consumed by worry, and for once the fire had ceased between tragedy and me. While my sister was recovering, I had the consistency of other patients and my daily routine to dull the pain and keep myself occupied.

When my mother and I were brought by Haymitch Abernathy into our room in Comartment E with the Hawthornes and the mayor's daughter to be told that Katniss was having a baby, hours after she was admitted to the hospital, I was strangely elated. Not only did I have a soft spot for babies, but finally, it was my turn to help my sister. I had plenty of experience with assisting the mothers of both District Twelve and Thirteen as they began to nurse and care for their newborn children, proudly watching for over a year countless teary first encounters and dozens of giddy women giggle as they mastered feeding their child. As much as I loved my sister, human interaction was never her strongest suit. She refuses to attach herself to people, refuses to let others inside of her circle of trust. If the way she has cared for me—since that dreadful day that we lost our father and, emotionally, our mother—and continued to care for me, however, is any indication of what kind of mother she will be, then she has the potential to be one of the best. But Katniss does not believe in herself the way I believe in her, the way an entire nation now believes in her. A push in an encouraging direction from her sister, her biggest fan, is all she needs. I smile slightly, rubbing my hand under my eye to wipe away excess tears, as I think about being there to help Katniss care for the child that she will soon bring into this world.

This new, terrifying world.

My cocoon of safety shattered this morning when Katniss woke up. Doctors were suddenly screaming for me, the intern, to inject the sedative in the screaming patient. This was routine, I was used to calming patients down on a regular basis. But the doctors had failed to mention that once the sea of white parted I would be standing before my older sister, challenging my set of morals as a family member against my code of ethics as a medical professional.

After this morning, the hospital was not the safe haven that it used to be for me. I realize that being comfortable does not protect me from the harsh reality that is my family and the life we are forced to face. I have to remind myself that my sister is being wildly pursued by the Capitol, my home has been bombed, and my world has been drastically altered.

My teeth clench down harder on the rag. My fists are wound up so fiercely that my knuckles have turned white. Now, every time I step into the intensive care wing, I will see my sister's wild eyes, rabid like the feral animals she hunts. I shake my head, knowing that even if I wanted to, I could not completely tear myself from the work I must do in order to continue helping others. Working, staying busy, and distracting myself is the only way to keep from going stir-crazy in District Thirteen. Tomorrow, I will ask to be moved back down to the first-aid station. With the daredevil life my sister and her companions lead, my chances of having to sedate them at the measly first-aid station will be highly unlikely. My aspirations of a medical career can wait for my sanity to catch up.

Slowly, I steady myself and stand. I lurk in the shadows of District Thirteen's underground corridors for several hours, the schedule on my arm tucked under my sterile white sleeve to hide the fact that I am breaking rules and disregarding my agenda.

I skip dinner and the evening shift at the hospital before I reluctantly decide to return to my living quarters, hanging my head as I walk. I dread coming home to Mother, who watched me shake and shiver as I injected Katniss and proceeded to run off in tears. She must be wondering if her silly youngest child can do _anything _right.

But when I open the door to my room in Compartment E, my mother is nowhere in sight.

A body stands in the center of the small room that my mother and I have loosely been calling home for the past month. The figure gazes upward and breathes deeply, as if inhaling the claustrophobia. Something large and furry resides in the arms of the intruder, and underneath the ball of matted fuzz, there is the slightest trace of a protruding stomach.

"Hi, Katniss," I greet my sister breathlessly.

* * *

After I've attacked her with hugs, she begins to speak. Her eyes dart about the room, as if she is concerned that the dismal gray walls around her will close in on us.

"I just got back from District Twelve—what's left of it, at least. I found Buttercup. How this ratty old cat survived an attack like that, I'll never know…but anyway, I figured you'd want a friend here, since I'm not much company. So, take him."

Her hands awkwardly extend Buttercup in my direction and I snatch him up in my excitement. Buttercup meows gleefully and rubs his soft yellow fur across my cheek with a tickling sensation that elicits an uncharacteristic giggle from my throat. I look into Buttercup's sweet eyes and nostalgia for a life I used to lead washes over me. I have not genuinely laughed in what seems like ages, not since countless lazy afternoons of frolicking in the meadow with Lady after school. Those afternoons seem like nothing but distant memories now. I hug Buttercup closer to my heart. Having this little piece of home—my real home—makes living in Thirteen a bit more bearable.

"These rooms are…cheery," Katniss observes, as if she is reading my mind. I notice that she is wrapped in Dad's old hunting jacket and has propped our parent's wedding photo on the nightstand and my chest tightens. 'Cheery' is far from accurate, but I can tell she is making an effort by making light of our situation and seeming enthused to be here, even though she is anything but. I cautiously approach her, unsure if she remembers the episode from earlier.

"You get used to it," I lie, still not used to the change of scene myself. "How are you?"

The question is intended as simple small talk, not meant to be weighted as heavily as it comes out as. I clamp my mouth shut, regretting ever opening it in the first place. Katniss gazes down at me with a puzzling look. I can see in her eyes that she recognizes that the face of fear I wear now is the same one I wore this morning, when I was coming at her with a needle.

She kneels down, cupping the side of my face, which is now pink and puffy with the residue of tears. She smiles a halfhearted grin and says, "I'm okay, Little Duck."

The smile that she has plastered on her face is visibly phony, and the nickname seems old and worn on her tongue. Maybe before the reaping, years ago, the smile and endearing words would have washed away all of my inhibitions without leading me to think twice about what lay behind my sister's reassuring expression. Somewhere along the way of this journey, I grew up. Feigned happiness and false encouragement was no longer convincing. I had seen too much, heard too much, and experienced too much in a year to continue to keep the veil of innocence draped carefully over my head, despite everyone's efforts to keep it in place.

I look at the bulge that resides on my sister's belly and remember that she has grown up, too.

"You can tell me how you _really_ feel, you know," I whisper, looking into her sullen grey eyes with as much sincerity as I can convey.

The smile immediately falters, the steady flow of tears begins, and suddenly the roles have reversed. I hold my trembling sister in my arms and gently rock her. After a short while passes, I begin to attempt to coax her out of her hysteria.

"It's okay to hurt, Katniss. You don't have to be big and strong all the time, especially not in front of me. I'm the queen of getting emotional, remember? Like that time you threatened to cook Buttercup and I cried for hours? You and Mother thought it was so silly of me to get so worked up over something so trivial. So if you let me cry over _that,_ you're entitled to cry an ocean of tears."

"I feel pathetic. I feel…weak, Prim" Katniss sputters past hiccupping sobs. I rub the small of her back in the comforting way she used to for me when I had nightmares about the reaping and shush her.

"You're not weak, you're a human being. And human beings get hurt."

Katniss sobs harder at the mentioning of the fact that she is not a super hero, and Buttercup, jealous of my attention being directed at my sister, begins to screech. Katniss suddenly begins to speak under her breath, the words flying from her mouth so quickly that they sounds less like words and more like the strained syllables of a twisted chant. I hear only broken bits of her stream of consciousness over Buttercup's wailing.

"…_Peeta…one time…betraying Gale…Snow…rose…watching me…Mockingjay…rebellion…" _

Her eyes glaze over and her head lolls back against the crook of my elbow. Her limbs become limp at my touch. My hands begin to flutter hopelessly amidst the terrifying noises of my cat's deafening screams and my sister's incoherent whispers. Around me, the room begins to spin. I can swear that the walls are this time, in fact, closing in.

"Katniss…Katniss…_ Katniss, stop!_"

Before I can think any further, I slap her hard across the face. It is true that I did not have a sedative in the room, but my expertise in medicine coupled with my memories of watching my mother cure momentary insanity should have been put to better use. As flesh makes contact with flesh, I wince and cry out. I have hurt my sister two times too many today, and a rosy flush dashes across my face as I retreat to the corner of the room to stroke Buttercup for comfort. I am no better than the Capitol, harming my sister to get her to shut up and do as I say.

"I'm sorry," I squeak out as her eyes meet mine. I search for any traces of betrayal or hate in her eyes, but her expression is unreadable. I swallow the lump in my throat, because her ambiguity is what frightens me most. "Katniss, I didn't mean to hurt you. Not now, and not earlier today with the morphling. They didn't tell me it was you. I didn't know. I'm sorry I went through with it, I'm sorry if I appeared to have deceived you. I was just doing my job. And just now…well, you were scaring me with all that babbling and…"

The confession is released from my lips like a bag of heavy stones sinking to the bottom of a lake, "…and I was scared that I was going to lose you, again."

To my surprise, Katniss starts to laugh. Hand still on her reddened cheek, she sits cross-legged on the floor and laughs so hard until tears stream down her face. The padded shoulders of my father's jacket bob up and down ferociously and she has to hold on to her bump to keep herself from tipping over.

I'm by no means a medical expert just yet, but I believe my sister is experiencing her first mood swing.

As confusing and emotionally draining as the last half hour has been for us both, I find myself starting to giggle as well. Katniss beckons me to join her on the floor and I obey. We stay like this for what seems like hours before the laughter dies down and Katniss shakes out the rest of her giddiness, whisking tears of momentary ecstasy from her eyes.

"I—I could _never _be mad at you, Prim. I needed to be slapped anyway. Some of the things I saw during my visit to Twelve were just extremely _unsettling_, is all," she explains. The way she deviates around the troubling circumstances of her visit should make me shudder, but I find myself laughing harder. Katniss joins back in.

Who is this girl, laughing in the face of catastrophe? What has she done to the timid girl with the goat who cried throughout the night, cowering at the very mentioning of the Hunger Games long before she could even understand them?

I suppose the old saying 'laughter is the best medicine' is true, because when our cackles finally subside, Katniss looks livelier than she has been in years. She wipes down her tear-streaked face yet again and lets out a final, breathy chuckle as she gazes into her lap.

"It's hysterical. This whole thing, it's laughable. I mean, look at me: I've been through every horrible situation in the book—the Games, watching people die, killing some of them myself, having all of that happen _again_, being pursued by the Capitol, failing to protect Peeta—and then, as if my life wasn't screwed up enough, fate adds a _baby_ into the mix. A baby, Prim. I can't have kids. I can hardly take care of myself, let alone another person."

"That's not true," I insist, cutting her off and staring her straight in the eye. Eye contact and confrontation, I muse, come to me almost too easily. The old Primrose Everdeen would faint from the overwhelming shame of crossing an elder. "You've taken care of me for as long as I can remember. Even before Dad died."

I rotate my entire body to face her now. Her jaw slides back and forth and I can tell she is gritting her teeth, conjuring up a rebuttal. I silence her with a flippant finger to her pouting lips.

"No, it's _my _turn to talk, Katniss."

Seriously, who _is _this dauntless stranger?

"Please," I add. That's more like it. Katniss purses her lips together and nods, hand absentmindedly resting on her abdomen.

I can tell she is shocked, but the glimmer of intrigue and excitement catching in her eyes tells me that my change in character is one that she can handle. One that she enjoys, even. "Ok," she says, feigning defeat and throwing her palms skyward.

"I know you don't think you can handle being a mother, but whether you realize it or not, you became a mother the second our father died. You've cared for me and taught me so much. You have risked your life for me and continue to do so even though, in my eyes, I owe you so many times over. You notice the small details, like the way I prefer my hair pulled back because it makes me feel more secure and just the right temperature for a warm glass of goat milk when I have nightmares. You don't just love because it is something you have to do; you love with your whole heart because that is who you are. Those qualities alone set you apart from all _above-average _mothers. Katniss, if you can handle two Hunger Games, outsmart the Capitol, and become a political symbol of hope for an entire nation, you can manage a baby."

I have to stop to catch my breath. For two years, I have bottled my admiration for my sister in for the sake of sparing her, for I know she is not keen on people openly gushing over her. She gets enough of it from the multi-colored people of the Capitol.

I expect her to get up and walk away, to dismiss every word I have carefully calculated before stating. But, to my surprise, she leans over and hugs me close to her body, whispering endless thanks into my ear. Just like that, we are back to our original roles. I am safe and sound in my sister's strong arms. Pressed up against my body is the swell of her pregnancy and I smile to myself. Hunger Games will reap us and wars will threaten us, but we will always stand tall as a family.

"And you won't be alone," I add. "There are so many people who know and will probably be more than willing to help you: me, Mom, Madge, Haymitch, Gale—"

Katniss laughs again. There is something bitter lingering in her laugh this time. "I don't think _Gale _is going to want to help me out, given the paternity of the baby."

My lips form a thin line, so tightly pressed I feel as though they have gone white from the lack of blood flow. Gale never openly admitted to being the father, nor did he deny it. There had been rumors that he punched a wall after hearing the news, but I shrugged them off. The question of the paternity remained vague and created an uncomfortable tension between our family and the Hawthornes. Rory Hawthorne hardly looked me in the eye anymore.

"It's Peeta's," I say, and she nods. "Oh, Katniss. So, at the final interviews…"

"He thought he was lying to protect us both. To gain more sympathy and more sponsors. To possibly stop the Games from happening. I thought he was lying, too. If he knew, he would have fought much harder than he already had been to keep me alive. It happened once, after the Quell was announced, and neither of us thought a thing of it since. We didn't think to use—we didn't know. He doesn't know," she explains with a grimace. "He may never know."

Her gaze is thrown upward, tears glistening in her gray eyes. The newly raised hormone levels of pregnancy and the unpredictability of them have been nothing short of a nuisance for her, I can tell.

"And now, I've agreed to be the Mockingjay for a war that I don't even know I believe in, for a side I doubt will win."

I am not as taken aback by this news as she thinks I should be—I have overheard plenty of conversations having to do with my sister's involvement as the face of the rebellion for weeks now—so I contort my face in order to feign surprise. Another thought crosses my mind. Katniss is not one to easily hand herself over without a proper fight. My brow furrows in confusion.

"What kind of negotiation did they have to make with you to get you to do go along with this?"

"Just a few conditions: keep Peeta, Johanna and the other victors safe, go hunting, get permission to visit Twelve and keep the stupid cat here, nothing unexpected. Coin will be making the formal announcement in a few days, I believe."

The conversation falters, and Katniss peers down into her lap. Any human with an intuitive nature could tell that something unspoken was still eating away at her, tugging at her heartstrings, and playing her emotions like a finely tuned violin. She reaches into her pocket and rolls something between her fingers.

A pearl.

I sigh, finally understanding. "The Capitol will never kill him, you know," I say. It's not just what she needs to hear, it is the truth.

"And why is that, Prim?"

I swallow hard, knowing that another slap across the face would be gentler than the truth. "They know he's the only way they can break you."


	4. Chapter 4

******A/N: Hey for the second time today! I also had these two chapters written up so I thought I'd double post just to keep momentum going and give you guys an extra taste of the story. I only have about nine chapters fully written out, so the updates will unfortunately be slower after that, but I will do my best to get the fic updated as efficiently and quickly as possible if you guys want that. Thanks again for all of the favs and follows and the review, I'm pleasantly surprised by the support this has gotten already and so grateful for it! Feel free to keep doing what you do best and review, review, review! I'd really appreciate feedback and would love to hear what you guys are thinking! Thanks!**

******-ILoVeWicked**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Chapter 4**

**Gale**

"_What's the matter? What's going on?" Primrose Everdeen asks frantically as Haymitch corrals Prim, her mother, Madge Undersee, and my family into one of the cramped Everdeen residence of Compartment E. "Is something wrong with Katniss?" _

"_She's going to pull through. The explosion and the blood loss from Johanna removing her tracker did a number on her, but the doctors expect her to recover," Haymitch says reassuringly, keeping his eyes on Prim but addressing the entire room. I release a sigh of relief. From the moment Catnip shot her arrow into the force field of the arena and all of the screens of Panem went gray with static, my heart had been racing. All of Thirteen was in shambles, desperately awaiting the return of the hovercraft with the rescued rebel victors. _

_The morning's events were almost too surreal to be true, like they happened to some other being in my body and not to me. Slowly, the pieces begin to fit themselves together as my mind wills them to do so. _

_My comunicuff was nearly self-destructing from all of the signals it was receiving this morning. I raced to the landing dock to be among the rebels who would assist the victors off of the hovercraft. Half of my drive came from my constant desire to be a part of the excitement that the rebelling District always seemed to have to offer. Since my arrival, post-escape from the blazing District Twelve, the leaders of Thirteen have treated me as an equal, perhaps even above the norm, for my military involvement. I appreciated the feeling of being wanted, of being depended on, so much so that I jumped at any opportunity to be at the front lines when action took place in District Thirteen. They had given me a communicuff for a reason, and I was not about to have the one physical evidence of my importance be taken away. There were no chances for stupid mistakes now. _

_The other part of me rushed to the landing dock because I needed to know she was here as soon as I could._

_When the hovercraft landed, it was madness. Soldiers screamed orders left and right at us volunteers as stretchers swarmed with medics began to roll down a steep ramp that led to the dock. I was about to move when I caught a glimpse of a familiar braid whirring past me. Bruised, bloodied, and burnt, Katniss Everdeen never looked more vulnerable than she did in that moment. Her eyes were shut, her body stiff. _

_In the next moment, she was gone, her survival a mystery to me. One soldier called my name and slapped me hard on the back, where one of the raw, pink scars from my whipping lay, and I winced with pain as I snapped back into action and continued to help unload the other victors to safety, thoughts of Katniss momentarily put aside. _

_Mellark wasn't among the rescued. I felt the slightest twinge of guilt for being happy about it._

_Once my duties were through, I was left to the torture of my mind. Where was Katniss? Was she alive? When I hurried to the hospital, I was turned away, left to pace in a small waiting room until my thoughts—conjuring up the worst scenarios—consumed me to the point of frustration and I stormed out of the hospital to attempt to breathe normally. _

_But I couldn't feel any sense of normalcy until I knew she was alive. _

_When Haymitch delivers the good news in a frenzied huff to her younger sister, I am overjoyed. It has been hours since any of us have received word on Katniss' status, and being shoved into a room with all of her loved ones wasn't exactly a positive sign in my book. _

"_So what's going on then?" my brother Rory pipes up. My mother's hand lands on his shoulder to remind him to be tactful around adults and Rory lets out a strangled yelp. The gesture seems painless, but I can tell by the five slight indents in my brother's shirt that Hazelle Hawthorne's grip is a deceivingly excruciating one._

_Haymitch pauses for a moment, rubbing the stubble on his chin apprehensively. His eyes dash over each of us before he rolls them with agony. "This is ridiculous. I shouldn't have been given this job." _

_My eyes quickly scan the room and I suppress a chuckle as I watch all pairs of eyes—the withered gray of Katniss' mother, Prim's newly hardened charcoal, Madge's discontented sky-blue, and even Posy's bright green—suddenly glare at him. I can even feel my own eyes narrow. Haymitch runs his hand down his face and sucks in a deep breath. He swiftly pulls a flask from his pocket and just as quickly stuffs it back into his hiding place when he catches the disapproving glances of the adult women. _

"_Like I said, Katniss is fine. Injured, as to be expected, but she will be fine. The goal is to get her back on her feet within the next month."_

"_So,__ if she's fine then _why _are we here, like we're about to have _another _bomb dropped on us?" Rory whines. Another hand on his shoulder. Another yelp. Haymitch's fingers twitch toward his pocket, aching to be numb enough to deliver whatever formidable news is coming our way. _

"_That's just the thing…I bet you're wondering why I was instructed to gather you all in here, especially if she is supposedly fine—," he begins. The word 'fine' has been tossed around so many times that it suddenly no longer seems to have a positive connotation. My mother crosses her arms over her chest._

"_The answer would be helpful, Haymitch," she chides, and Katniss' mother sends her an appreciative look. My mother has always had it out for Haymitch. They were almost the same age, and as rumor had it, he picked on her in school. To this day, she continues to hold a grudge against him for it, never failing to bring up how he is quite possibly the poorest representation of District Twelve. _

_Judging him purely based on this interaction, and his memorable somersaulting act at the reaping a few years ago, she may be right about the drunken Victor._

_Haymitch lets out a frustrated huff and circles around himself, trying to find the right words. Finally, hands tugging uncomfortably at the hem of his shirt, Haymitch barely whispers three words under his breath: _

"_Katniss is pregnant." _

_I do not bother doing a scan of the room this time, because I can practically feel the heat of eight sets of eyes now on _me, _expectantly awaiting my reaction. __I begin to feel my face reddening, my fists curling, and my jaw clenching in rage as I feel my world crash around me._

_Now, I almost wish Mellark was here. I want to have the honor of personally killing him. _

_There aren't many thoughts running through my head, other than the thought of that doe-eyed baker with Katniss, my Katniss. I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to erase the image of a child with their genetics running around these halls. _

It can't be true_, I think to myself_. She chose me.

_When it becomes clear that they are not getting anything more than a stony-faced glare from me, Katniss' mother awkwardly clears her throat. The woman is too young to be a grandmother. I gaze at Prim and frown. There is the slightest trace of a smile playing on her lips. Prim has only been in the reaping once. She can't possibly be becoming an aunt already._

"_How—how did this happen?" Mrs. Everdeen asks timidly. _

_Haymitch scoffs curtly. _"_Well, Mrs. Everdeen, when two teenagers decide to be idiots and _explore _without thinking to protect themselves…" _

"_You know that's not what she meant, Haymitch," my mother practically snaps. _

_Haymitch goes on to describe Katniss' condition as he was instructed to. She is almost through her first trimester, the proper pre-natal treatment has just been administered to her and an ultrasound indicated that the baby had not sustained any injuries in the arena or during the explosion and would most likely grow normally, which is 'remarkable'. I listen to all of these words, but I do not hear them. I can no longer bear to sit here and take this continual slap in the face. _

_Wordlessly, I pick myself up and storm out of the room, shoving past Haymitch and receiving a backhanded remark from him as I go. I sulk down the halls, my breath picking up the same jagged, uneven pace it had when I first tried to visit Katniss in the hospital earlier. _

_Her mother's words replay in my head, over and over, like the twisted shrieks of a jabberjay: _

How did this happen?

_Last time I checked, Katniss had chosen me over Goldilocks. Her kiss and her adamant promises after my whipping told me so. I'll admit, the faux wedding often had me worried that she would suddenly decide to jump ship and cling to her "fiance", but I held onto the confidence in her voice on that fateful day that she chose to love me. The wedding bells could ring all they wanted, but at the end of the day, Katniss' faith and heart lay with the right man, the man she never had to pretend around. _

_But now, everything is different. What is so appealing about Peeta Mellark, I cannot figure out. The boy has never known struggle, not like Katniss and I have, at least. He has always grown up with food on his plate. Never did he have to experience loss the way Katniss and I had to endure when we both lost our fathers. Peeta would not have survived the Games without Katniss. _

_I grimace as I remind myself that there is not a single mean bone in his body. I recall his empathy for others, his ability to use the power of his words, and above all, the way his eyes light up, as if they are on fire, whenever she walks into a room. I stop dead in my tracks and grunt in displeasure. Maybe I do not think he could hold a candle to his opponents in the arena, but when it comes to the game of love, the guy is a contender. _

_I'll give him that much. _

_The thought of Katniss choosing him over me, and going behind my back to do so, is agonizing. I do the math and discover that the time of the baby's conception happened before the two of them even made it to the Capitol for the Quell. I suck in a pained breath through my bared teeth, nearly blacking out from how hard this information strikes me._

_I feel betrayed. I feel angry. But more than anything, I feel heartbroken._

_At this point, I discover that I have wandered into the busy plaza of Thirteen, the hub of all activity in the center of the underground confines. My breathing is noticeably heavy as my lungs cry out and gasp for air. My muscles convulse while I battle to keep my anguish at bay. My cognizance fades in and out. I pause and come to for a brief moment, long enough to discover that I have attracted an audience. I blink into the imaginary spotlight. Puzzled looks, concerned glances, and tense whispers from within the crowd dart across the hall to each other, bounce off the walls, and hit me like gunfire. Between all of the unwanted attention and the downward spiral of my thoughts, I am bordering emotional breakdown. I physically am no longer able to bottle up these feelings any longer. _

_I reach out, narrowly dodging the heads of several onlookers, and cry out as my fist makes contact with one of the earthen walls, smashing a hunk of it into smithereens. Mothers gasp and cover their children's eyes, scurrying away. Guards cautiously gaze over their shoulders at the commotion. I sink to the ground, quivering in my emotional concoction of embarrassment and hurt, and stare down at my bloodied hand. _

How did this happen?

_The crowd eventually dissipates. There are places to be, meals to eat, other crazed men to watch punch walls._

_I do not remember exactly when she comes, takes my battered hand, and wordlessly sits down beside me, but we stay there until the next morning. _

* * *

"Hey, Stranger," she greets me playfully. I look up momentarily from my work and do a double take. Quickly, I turn back to the gun I have been toying with. It is unloaded, but at this point it may as well be filled with bullets for me to fire into my skull.

Katniss looks worlds better than when I last saw her a month ago, when she was lying limp and lifeless on a gurney. She now wears a communicuff, similar to my own. Her eyes are cautious, yet glistening in anticipation. I recognize the look from our hunting days in Twelve, the intoxicating mixture of tamed excitement as she anxiously awaited her prey. Her wounds have been washed away, tended to by salves and the careful doctors whose jobs are on the line if she should look anything less than one hundred percent unmarred. Her face is full of color once again, almost as if she is glowing.

And then, I remember.

Her bump is slight, but unmistakable. It is the reason why I could not bring myself to visit her unconscious form in the hospital. Seeing her in that state—not under sedation, but with child—was something I would not be able to bear. It is the same reason why I cannot look her in the eye now.

She catches where my gaze has fallen and frowns. "They told you."

"They told me because they thought I was the father, which is clearly not the case." The words are biting and sound foreign on my tongue. I don't like speaking to her with such hostility, and I hate that these are the first words I have said to her in almost four months. I make a conscious effort to ease up on my resentment.

I can feel the tension in my face dissipate as I attempt to form a feeble smile. "I didn't mean—It's good to see you, Catnip." Her shoulders visibly ease up and her smile turns genuine.

"They told me you'd want privacy in here…," she begins. She's correct. I have been appointed to work with Beetee on weaponry. This room, designed as an arsenal for weapons in the making, is technically off limits.

"I do, normally. But it's alright. Besides, I'm sure they were able to bend the rules for their sacred vessel," I cut her off, unintentionally tacking the biting jab at her pregnancy to the end of the sentence. Hurt flashes across her face for a split second before she plops down in the seat beside me. Beetee left for his lunch break over an hour ago. Despite his accuracy in the clock-shaped arena, the man cannot guesstimate a proper break window and it is baffling. Katniss rubs her palms against her pant legs and stares down into her lap.

"I missed you," she breathes out into the abyss between us. It's all I need, the simplicity and honesty of that one confession, to finally muster up the courage to look up into those familiar Seam eyes.

"I missed you, too, Catnip, but…" My voice trails off, and I am suddenly tentative about my word choice. I sigh as I realize there is no easy way to ask the question.

"How did this—I thought you chose me?" My chest suddenly feels ten pounds lighter. Bottling up my thoughts and feelings, in addition to living in a state of denial in which I devoted myself to my work to avoid thinking of it, of her, has done a greater number on me than I could have let myself imagine. I inhale, and I exhale. I can breathe again.

Katniss looks taken aback by the forthright inquiry. Even though it is the nature of our relationship to be as straightforward to each other as possible—in a world made up of liars, we liked to think of ourselves as a two-man club of nonconformists—it has been months since we have last seen each other. This conversation is clearly one both of us neither anticipated nor wanted happening any time soon. I'm sure these aren't the questions she thought she would have to answer first, but in all honesty, what does she think I will ask instead? How the morning sickness is going?

"I—I—," she stammers. Finally, she gives in to submission and guilt spreads like wildfire across her crimson-colored cheeks. "Gale, I'm sorry. I truly am. I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I thought I made a choice, I honestly did. I know how this must look to you, but the _last _thing I meant to do was hurt you. I'm not asking you to forgive me right away, but I'm asking for the chance for you to hear me out and maybe understand."

Understand? I suppose the look I give her next is nothing short of unconvinced, so she rambles on, "Gale, please. Say something. Say anything. I'll answer whatever questions you have to the best of my ability, just…just _please, _talk to me. I need my best friend."

The authentic desperation in her voice is heartbreaking. The only thing harder than not being able to love her the way I want to is not being able to love her at all.

Her eyes glimmer with a batch of tears and I fight to resist tears of my own. I glare at the stony wall in front of me, dimly lit by a flickering desk lamp. I have to look away. I remind myself that I am not dealing with a school crush whose feelings for me are not mutual, I am dealing with Katniss Everdeen. Once all of the romantic implications of my life with Katniss have been stripped away, she is my best friend. Yes, she is the girl I always thought I was going to marry and start a family with, but she is also the little girl I watched stand stoically beside her mother and sister as they honored her dead father. She is the young woman who I taught how to make a snare. She is the hero who won the Hunger Games. She is the brave woman who stood and took a lashing for me.

I do not owe Katniss, my fantasized lover, a damned thing. But I owe the world to my best friend.

So, I choose to speak. "Weirdest craving you've had so far?"

Her smile is faint, pitiful, but it's there, and it's all I need to know I've done my part on this two-way street called friendship, for the moment. "Squirrel meat pies. The nasty kind I used to try and pass off as dessert when desperate times called for desperate measures back at home."

I laugh slightly, remembering all too well the pungent smell of the pie nearly singing my nose hair as Katniss insisted I eat it and encourage Prim to eat her slice. Once I decide that the ice has been sufficiently cracked—it cannot be truly broken in a situation like this—I turn to more serious questions. Who knows how many I have left to ask before I run out, before things get too personal and she performs one of her infamous escapes.

"Ok, so when did it happen?"

She recalls the actual task that is at hand and her smile disappears just as quickly as it came.

"The night they announced the Quarter Quell."

"Where?"

"That's perverted."

"It's even more perverted if you put Prim at risk of seeing _that_."

"An empty house in Victor's Village. I hid out in the basement to cry and scream and get my five minutes of being able to throw a temper tantrum, but, of course, he found me. He comforted me. One thing lead to another, and—"

I cut her off with a snort. "Classic line there, Catnip. You sound like me recounting a bad evening behind the slag heap."

She glares at me. "I don't _have _to give you this information, you know."

"Well, I don't _have _to sit here and listen to it," I fire back. She lets out a frustrated huff and crosses her arms over her chest.

"You're so stubborn."

I've never seen her act girlier than she is choosing to act in this moment, with all of her huffing and puffing and accusatory remarks. I remember her high estrogen levels and frown. There's something morally incorrect about toying with a pregnant woman. I was the oldest of four, and I learned that lesson from countless trimesters' worth of mood swings. Even if it is Mellark's kid in there and I am mad as hell, Katniss' state is still fragile.

I clasp my fists together and force myself to put my selfish thoughts aside and to continue to struggle talking to her like she is nothing but a good friend. I don't want to hurt her. More importantly, I don't want to leave her. And in order to do that, I have to separate the personal from the professional with her, just as I was able to do with my work in weaponry. In a way, Katniss was a weapon, ready to fire and kill me at any moment. That girl could screw me over a million times and my feelings wouldn't change. Her feelings for me are different story. A story, I am afraid, that will not end in 'happily ever after'.

"Just one more question," I whisper, my eyes now squeezed shut. Maybe, if I can't see her face when she answers, it will not hurt as much. But I want to know. I _need _to know. "In that moment, did you love him?"

She is silent. My eyes have been shut for what seems like ages. I start to count pinholes and nearly nod off before she answers.

"I did."

I open my eyes, my technique having failed. My heart is being strangled by the invisible hands of her betrayal and her honesty. The hands reach out, grabbing the vital organ and wringing it through delicate fingers until there is no blood left to course through my veins. Tears are silently rolling down her cheeks, and I can tell that her answer took careful deliberation, so careful that it hurt her just as much to admit as it did for me to hear it.

"Do you still love him?"

"That's two questions."

"_Katniss_," I urge through clenched teeth. "If you still love him, that's something I deserve to know."

She wipes the back of her hand across her blotchy cheek and sniffles.

"I don't know."

The answer seems to shock herself more than anything. "I truly don't know. I love you both in ways that are too different to even begin comprehending. I know that I need both of you in my life more than ever right now. I need my best friend to help me through all of this because I also need the father of my baby to be here, but I couldn't save him. I couldn't save my kid's father, Gale, and it breaks my heart that I've already failed as a mother. So Peeta can't be here, and I can't spend any more time crying over the fact that I can't change that. I am having a baby, and in a few short months I'm going to have to share my heart with an entirely new third party. So I can't choose right now, simply because I'm being selfish and it hurts to damn much to think about life without either of you. I'm seventeen and pregnant and I don't know who I want. But I do know I care about my best friend, and I want to be able to share my life with him again…that is, if he's willing to let me back in."

Her explanation is a ratty old blanket, so full of holes that it would not be able to keep Greasy Sae warm in the wintertime, but it packs enough hope and hurt to keep me afloat. I am wading in the unpredictable ocean of her heart, caught in the swirling chasm of the riptide of heartbreak and the whirlpool of her love.

Slowly, the ends of my mouth twitch upward into the first genuine smile I have contributed to the conversation. I've always known the answer to her plea, but like she said, I'm too stubborn to admit it.

"I can't forgive you just yet. I will, but not right away. But I will always be your friend, no matter what, Catnip."

Suddenly, those familiar arms are wrapped around my neck and she has molded herself perfectly to fit the shape of my body as we sway together. The embrace seems all too familiar. Last time I remember clutching her like this was in the woods. After that, I inhaled the scent of her windblown hair and kissed her.

This time, her hair smells sterile, like a hospital. This time, there is no kiss. This time, there is a child, _her _child, resting between us.

When we separate the conversation suddenly comes easier to us. We discuss Katniss' agreement to be the Mockingjay, how she scored us valuable hunting time above grounds, and her acquisition of Buttercup the Titanium Feline. We even manage to briefly discuss her pregnancy. She hates her morning sickness because it makes her feel like she is wasting valuable food that could have fed an entire Seam family. She hates her swollen ankles because she can barely tie her hunting boots around them.

She hates that Peeta isn't here to help her through any of it.

She mentions this briefly and backtracks as soon as the thought leaves her mouth, but I disregard it and pay as much attention to her as I possibly can. I soak in her every detail: the tresses of her dark locks, the flecks of silver in her eyes, the slight curve in her posture. I want to remember it all, in case it is someday not mine.

Our communicuffs go off and we are summoned to the assembly room for a District-wide meeting, most likely to announce Katniss' agreement to be the Mockingjay.

As we go, the door swings open to reveal Madge Undersee, my unwavering company from the night I thought I lost Katniss forever. Madge's blue eyes meet mine for a brief moment. When we have passed her completely, I cannot shake her expression from my mind.

She looked like she was about to punch a wall.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Chapter 5**

**Katniss**

_It is colder here than I remember it being. Despite my layers, the chill of the dusty, barren District Twelve winds send shivers up and down my spine. The hair on my arms has rocketed skyward. I stand in the center of my home—well, what used to be my home and is now an incinerated pile of rubble. _

_Of course, I am not referring to my house in the Victor's Village, which was eerily the only stretch of land that remained untouched by the bombs. I am referring to my home before the Games. I laughed here, I cried here. This is the place where I starved and where I thrived. This is the place where I slunk in the shadows after a long day of hunting. This is the place where Prim and I took our first steps. This is the place where I lost both of my parents. This is the place where I brought Peeta's bread home to my family. _

_There is nothing left of it but memory now. The Capitol can obliterate the physical evidence that I once lived here, but memory is the one thing that they cannot take from me. So I take that memory and tuck it away, into the corners of my mind where the other snapshots of my life before the Games reside. _

_It is then that I hear the familiar hissing noises of an old enemy from behind me. I whirl around in shock to encounter Buttercup. My jaw drops. _

"_How the _hell_ did you survive nuclear warfare?" I ask him incredulously. As if he is pleased by my shock, Buttercup curls his lanky yellow body around my legs and begins to purr. I so badly want to leave him here, and without Prim here to protect him, I can easily get away with this. But as tempting as it sounds, I know that I will never be able to live with the guilt of withholding him from my sister. It will take some more reasoning with Coin to get permission to keep him in Thirteen, but it is worth the extra haggling for my sister's happiness. I begrudgingly pick up the fleabag and the strong scent of dirt and coal mines, of home, floods my nostrils._

"_Katniss," a voice in my ear speaks. Haymitch. Coin was afraid I would flee if left alone down here—not that there is anything left for me to run to or from in Twelve—and Haymitch was surprisingly able to reason with her enough to put me on a headphone system. The hovercraft quite literally hovers over me, and I am musing over how I can never truly escape surveillance when Haymitch speaks up again. "You done down there, Sweetheart?" _

"_I have to pick up a few things," I mutter back as I head in the direction of the village. _

_The house is fully furnished when I walk through the threshold. For a lingering moment, I can smell the scent of a fresh coat of off-white paint on these walls, but Buttercup is in too desperate need of a bath to be entirely sure. _

_The air is too creepy to revel in the unwanted memories here, so I decide to move quickly. I dash past the room in which President Snow accosted me over my unconvincing performance shortly after Peeta and I were crowned Victors of the 74th Annual Hunger Games. My hand rests on the bump over my abdomen and I laugh, the sound reverberating off the empty walls with a sickening echo. _

"_How's _this _for an 'unconvincing performance', Snow?" I mutter to my invisible audience, arms outstretched and head held high. _

_I bound up the stairs and move hastily as I weave through the bedrooms, picking up basic necessities. I grab the beautiful hair ribbon that I bought for Prim when we still lived in the Seam and delicately wrap it around Buttercup's neck. From my mother's bed quarters I smuggle her wedding photo, containing the last remaining evidence that she was ever a cheerful woman. I reach my room at the end of the hall. The wedding photo clutched tightly in my hands, I know what I want. _

_I thrust open the closet door and grab my father's hunting jacket, still in mint condition from when I left it last. I anxiously drop my other belongings onto the bed—Buttercup lets out a startled squeal and extends his razor sharp claw my way—and begin to put the sweet smelling leather back on my body. _

_I smile. Even with the extra load I carry on my front, the jacket still fits like a glove. I begin to twirl gaily, in a similar fashion to the way I did at the very first Games' interview. For a moment, the world around me is in equilibrium, blurred just beyond the level of comprehension so that I am left alone with my suspended thoughts._

_I only stop because I am dizzy. Coming to, I realize that I have come face to face with my warped reflection in the floor length mirror that hangs on my wall. The Girl on Fire stares back at Katniss Everdeen. Her face has been washed of any injury. Her eyes are brighter than embers. Even her baby bump looks noble. She is a hero. _

_Katniss Everdeen is a different story. Behind the clean face there is a hurting soul whose internal injuries cannot be mended. The embers in her eyes are growing colder, weaker. The baby bump terrifies her. _

_My eyes, Katniss' eyes, meet with the Girl on Fire's once again, and I swear, she grins back at Katniss wickedly. I glower at the Girl on Fire. I hate her. I hate myself. How can I begin to fight a war with the Capitol when I can barely fight the war with my own identity?_

_And I'm about to punch my snarky reflection square in the jaw when something over my shoulder catches my eye. Something pristine, white, and very much alive: _

_A freshly picked rose. One that has the distinct air of being from President Snow's garden. _

_I cannot breathe. I cannot think. My fingers fumble over the earpiece in my ear as I scurry to gather my possessions. "Haymitch," I say frantically. "Get me out of here."_

* * *

My breath jagged and motions frantic, I fling open the first door I can find. I stagger backward until my back jabs into a storage unit and I am showered with cleaning supplies.

Coin just publically threatened to kill me and everyone I cared about if I fail to uphold my position as Mockingjay. And I sat there and took it, like a helpless child being spooned bitter medicine.

Of course, District Thirteen's president made sure her promise of my eminent demise was delivered in such a way that the message was exclusively mine to hear.

"…_In accordance with these provisions that Miss Everdeen has asked for, she will, without question, be honored to uphold the position of our rebellion's Mockingjay. With conviction, valor, and bravery, Miss Katniss Everdeen will be the symbol of our hope to bring down the oppression of the Capitol. Hope is a symbol that cannot be lost, for if we lose hope, there is nothing left but fear. With our Mockingjay in command, I am certain that she will not bring upon us fear, for even her tiniest, most trivial fears are fears that she shares with you all. No one knows more than our Mockingjay, Katniss Everdeen, that hope is what keeps the engine of revolution revved up and ready for action._ _If our world should be threatened to end, certainly our Mockingjay's world will end as well." _

It was in that moment of uproarious applause, through a sea of cheers around me, that Coin's icy eyes found my own eyes, and I knew that she was aiming to make sure that I understood. Everyone I love would suffer if she is not pleased with me, and that alone would be enough to kill me.

According to Coin, my "tiniest, most trivial fears"—protecting those I care about—are clearly what I should not be fearful of, despite my sharing those fears with just about every human being in that room. It is now a matter of their death if I do not do my job correctly. Memories of Snow sitting in my parlor flood my mind, him instructing me to play the role of star-crossed lover in a way so convincing that even he would be able to believe our act.

If I could barely convince one dictator that I was in love with a boy, how am I supposed to lead a revolution in order to appease the other?

As if on cue, Gale's broad shoulders wedge their way into the corner of the supply closet, followed by Finnick's hunched over form. Finnick is quick to scoop up my hyperventilating body into his arms. Gale sits stoically beside me. His touch, understandably so, has become foreign to me. But he is here. That's all I can ask for.

"She threatened to kill us. You two, Prim, the baby…everyone is in danger _again _because of me," I slur into the crook of Finnick's arm. "If I am a horrible Mockingjay, if this rebellion fails, it's on me. And you all have to suffer."

"What? Coin didn't say any of that, Katniss. Where are you getting that idea?" Gale asks after taking less than a minute to process the cause of my outburst.

Finnick hugs me closer, and I can practically feel the daggers he is sending Gale with his eyes as he explains, "People like Coin, like Snow, mean ten different things when they utter a single word. It is very possible that what Katniss is saying is true and that Coin's threat is real."

"So what are you saying, Odair? That we shouldn't trust Coin? That she is just as dangerous as Snow?" Gale shoots back through clenched teeth. Finnick shakes his head.

"I don't know. I met her a month ago. But I've known Snow for almost ten years and I know how a passionate President's mind works. I'm not saying that we shouldn't trust Coin, but I'm saying we should be careful and mindful about _how much _trust we hand over to her. You're defending her because Coin makes you feel important, Gale. She gave you that comunicuff in exchange for your loyalty. You're a good soldier in the sense that you have given your loyalty to her…but I'm just advising you to keep some of that loyalty to yourself. "

Gale is silent for a prolonged moment, and I can tell he is seething after being told what to do by Finnick Odair. "Look, I may not be in on whatever exclusive _secrets_ you Victors know that I am constantly left out of, but whether you like it or not, we're equally ranked in this war. Coin's entire life since coming to Thirteen has been dedicated to destroying Snow. In my book, that doesn't put them in the same league. What side are you on, Odair, because it certainly sounds like you've got a soft side for the Capitol!"

Gale's voice is growing nearly as hysterical as mine had been earlier, rising in volume as his rant rages on. In his anger toward Finnick, his has risen to his knees, fist clenched and ready to strike. Finnick lunges over my body and pushes Gale back down to the ground.

"Be quiet, you hear? This closet is about as safe as anything else in Panem. I'm against the Capitol. If I was for the Capitol, they wouldn't be torturing me by holding Annie in the Capitol. Look, I'm sorry for setting you off, but right now, the top priority for all of us is making the Mockingjay as convincing as we possibly can. If this fails, and that woman doesn't get what she wants, we all die along with the revolution. Understood?"

Gale grumbles a barely-audible response that passes for a "yes" and Finnick releases his grip around me, which I now notice had gotten tighter since he and Gale first began arguing. I nearly choke on the oncoming sobs in my throat as I unfold myself from Finnick's arms and sit upright between the two men. They were my body guards, and they were each other's body guards.

And it killed me inside to know that they would both give their lives to protect me, but neither of them was in control. The protection lies in the persuasion and power of the Mockingjay. Of the Girl on Fire.

Of me.

"I need to go," I say abruptly as I rise, needing to be alone with my thoughts, and reach for the door handle of the closet. Both men are scrambling to catch up.

"Katniss-," Gale begins.

"Wait-," Finnick finishes.

But it is too late. I've accepted my role and wiped the tears from my eyes for hopefully what will be the final time until this revolution comes to a close. I take a deep breath, don my brave suit of armor, and step back into the corridors of District Thirteen.

Who I come face to face with nearly knocks the armor right off of me and shakes my brave façade down to its core:

Peeta.

He sits across from Caesar Flickerman, one leg crossed over his knee in the similar fashion I remember from his previous interviews, flashing that all-to-familiar smile on just about every screen in District Thirteen's hallway. To my surprise, he looks safe. Well-fed, dressed lavishly, and smiling, it almost feels too good to be true. One hand flies impulsively to my stomach, to our child, while the other finds my rapidly beating heart. I can feel the nervous energy of Finnick behind me, as well as Gale's scowl. All other sets of eyes in the corridor are on me, but I do not pay them any attention. I am, even for an imaginary, fleeting moment, with Peeta Mellark.

Caesar is asking him about the Quell, those final events that even I have trouble piecing together. Peeta, of course, answers with ease and truth. He knew and continues to know nothing. He was just playing the Game and doing his best to keep his 'wife' and 'child' alive. He continually stresses that I was just as innocent as he was.

What nearly freezes the marrow of my bones occurs when the baby, or rather, the idea born out of spite and strategy, is mentioned again by Caesar.

"Now, Peeta, you understand that in the explosion of the arena, your child did not survive?" Caesar asks, delicately dancing around his words. Peeta takes a jagged, convincing breath in, eyes welling with tears, and nods.

"Yes, I do. It breaks my heart that we lost our baby and that I lost Katniss. It's crazy, Casear, but for a moment in that arena, I truly felt like we were going to all come out of this alive and get to be a family."

He means every word. I close my eyes and remember that moment on the beach with a heavy heart. He told me that I was going to make a great mother. If only I could hear him say it again, now that this child is real and not just a figment of either of our imaginations. Then just maybe I could believe it too.

"My deepest condolences, Peeta," Caesar says softly, and under his thickly layered bronze foundation and royal blue eyebrows, I can read his sincerity. "But Katniss is still alive. She's in District Thirteen, as you know, with the rebel forces. She may even be watching this now…"

My breath hitches. Finnick reaches for my shoulder and gives it a light squeeze. Gale shuffles his feet.

"…So if you could take this opportunity to say anything to District Thirteen right now, what would it be?"

Peeta takes a moment to conjure up an answer, but being around his acting enough indicates to me that he's already rehearsed and calculated what he knows he'll have to say to keep me alive.

"I strongly recommend to _both _sides of this conflict to issue a cease-fire, so that all of the lives of those in the Capitol as well as those in District Thirteen may be spared."

The two men onstage shake hands, the anthem of Panem plays, and the screens of Thirteen go black.

One of Coin's guards finds me and instructs me to Coin's office. I learn that I will need to film propos, propaganda films, in order to show the Capitol that the rebels are ready to use weapons of warfare should the Capitol break the cease-fire first. I am introduced to my filming team and am instructed to report to the studio tomorrow morning.

I ingest all of Coin's orders silently, nodding and agreeing where appropriate, because once again, Peeta has given me the hope that I need to pull this all off. Hope that I may play the role of the Mockingjay convincingly so that his life, my life, and the life of our child may be spared and his wish to be a family may come true.

* * *

**A/N: Here's chapter five for y'all! Hope you've been enjoying so far! If I haven't stressed enough how grateful I am for all the favorites and follows and reviews, I truly do appreciate it! I was very apprehensive about putting this up and writing fics again, but you guys have made it worth it. Keep it up! I'll post the next chapter tomorrow!**

**-ILoVeWicked**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hello and Happy Sunday! Here's the next chapter, as promised. I go back to school today so updates will most likely be slower and farther apart, especially after I get through posting the chapters I've already written, but I assure you I have no intentions of abandoning the story so don't give up on me if I go MIA! Thanks so much for all of the positive feedback. I'm so glad to hear that you guys are enjoying the story and I hope you continue to do so! I'll do my best to get the next chapter up in the next few days. ****Have a great day, readers! **

**-ILoVeWicked**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

**Chapter 6**

**Peeta**

The lights on the stage dim, the pre-recorded applause dies down, and Caesar Flickerman's smile dissipates. He massages his jaw, tense from all of the years of smiling and Capitol-made enhancements, and sends me a wink. For a brief moment, I am able to see beneath the veneer of the beloved talk-show host and into how truly tiring his job can be.

_Yes, pity him,_ the cynic inside of me chides, _because being happy all the time when you're really just tired is the hardest job among the people in this room_.

"Nicely done, Peeta," Caesar says quietly.

"Thank you, Caesar," I reply cordially. We both know that what I have just performed was far from "nice".

Caesar sends me a flash of his blinding white teeth in a sincere smile before disappearing from the studio. He is replaced by two daunting Peacekeepers who grab my arms and abrasively shove them behind my back. Doing things "nicely" here, I realize as I am dragged down the drab halls of the Capitol's prison, is precisely how the Capitol mentality works. You can do everything in your power to make sure your job is done "nicely", but "nice" will only ever translate to "adequate and nothing more", and no amount of trying can change that fact. Nothing I do will ever meet the expectations of the Capitol.

My imprisonment has been the very definition of the word "nice". I have been fed daily with generous Capitol meals, slept in a bed, had access to recreational activities, and worn clothes that were reminiscent my late stylist, Portia's, design. Technically, I am a prisoner of this war, but to anyone watching in District Thirteen, it looks like I am on the Capitol's side. That is the only explanation, I have concluded, for why the Capitol is treating me with such dignity and respect despite the fact that I could very well be working for the rebels.

The "niceness" of my stay will reach its expiration date as more news of these rebels emerges and continues to slander the Capitol, and my role in the matter will certainly evolve as the Capitol is faced with the struggle of trying to use me against Thirteen all while believing that I am working for the rebels. How it will change, I do not know. The power lies completely in the Capitol's hands.

I am exactly what I vowed to never become: a pawn in this twisted game.

I had heard nothing of the rebels until a hand-written message from Snow described them to me. When I first discovered that Haymitch, Finnick, Plutarch Heavensbee, and Katniss were all safe in the once-fabled District Thirteen, my emotions ran the gamut. A small part of me was hurt, confused, and upset that I had not been important enough to save in the grand scheme of the rebellion. But the majority of me was relieved that she was at least far away from where I was.

Also detailed in Snow's letter was the news that many of the tributes involved in the Third Quarter Quell were informed of the rebellion against the Capitol, and Katniss and I were no exception given the alliance we were involved in. In an interview with Caesar, I was to honestly admit everything I knew about the rebellion before and during the Quell, as well as expose Katniss' knowledge to the world. I was aware that Caesar would ask me to verbalize a message to send to Thirteen. Snow had also detailed this message in his letter, which I had memorized word for word.

He gave me a week to come up with a performance that would "convince him that Katniss and I were the innocent tributes we claimed to be, as well as come up with a logical response to Caesar's final question so that Thirteen may know where the Capitol stands" and he "certainly hoped I would not let him down".

The Peacekeepers lead me out of the building and push my head down into the backseat of a questionable vehicle. The vehicle is adorned with tinted windows and the golden symbol of the Capitol wherever I look. Before placing a black bag over my head, one Peacekeeper instructs the driver to bring me to the President's Mansion.

It takes me less than a minute to comprehend that I have let the President down.

Trapped within the confines of the black bag over my head, I close my eyes, increasing the level of darkness around me. Worrying about my imminent death will not change the fact that I am alive now, I decide, and that Katniss is alive in District Thirteen. I am not completely defeated, for I have done my part, doing all I could to keep her alive while it was still in my power.

I would fight for her life up until the last moment of mine.

My thoughts are cut short when the car skids to a jolting halt and my body is ripped from the backseat of the vehicle. The Peacekeepers resume their positions at either of my sides. We walk for what feels like ages. A whip to the back of my calves occasionally forces me to pick up my pace as much as my prosthetic will allow me to.

Eyes still covered by the thick, black cloth, I decide to use my imagination to conjure up an idea of what my path looks like. My footprints echo down the corridors. The many stairwells we travel through are always steep, always directed upward. I imagine a castle in place of the mansion. The kind of castles my father used to describe in childhood bedtime stories of swashbuckling knights and heroes who scaled towers to save Princesses from fire-breathing dragons. I imagine a beautifully crafted stony structure, the tallest, most formidable building in all of Panem. I draw with the paints of my mind high walls and ceilings and lavish ornamentation covering every square inch of the surroundings through which I walk.

For a moment, I imagine myself dressed in armor—bounding up these stairs and free of constraints—my heart set on saving the Princess with the singular braid in the tallest tower. Inside of the bag, I am grinning from ear to ear.

All too soon my day dream is destroyed when a heavy door suddenly swings open and the dichotomous scent of blood and roses fills the bag, nearly suffocating me in my cocoon of darkness.

The bag is ripped from my head and I find myself face to snout with the fire-breathing dragon himself.

"Peeta Mellark," President Snow's gravelly voice greets me, shattering all illusions that I am a hero with the very way he utters my name. "Lovely to see you."

I wish I could say the same. I wish I could say _anything_. But for once, I am at a loss for words.

"Please, come over and take a seat, won't you?" Snow extends a gloved hand in the direction of a singular chair that has been set up directly across from him, with nothing but his mahogany desk as a barrier between the chair and his reptilian glare.

It takes a moment for me to realize that the Peacekeepers who had been at my sides have disappeared, as well as every other Peacekeeper in the room. I am supposed to make these movements on my own. Slowly, each step feeling less and less swashbuckling as I move, I find my way to the chair. Snow smiles, his set of teeth off-white and crooked beneath his leathery lips.

"President Snow," I choke out. "Lovely to see you as well."

If possible, Snow's smile becomes more sinister as a low laugh escapes his unclenched jaw. "Mr. Mellark, when I spoke with Miss Everdeen months ago, before your Victory Tour, we both agreed that we would not lie to each other during our conversation. I think it would be in _our _best interest if neither of us lied to each other as well. Do you think you can do that, Peeta?"

I swallow hard, and it does nothing for the large lump that has formed in my throat. "Yes, sir."

Snow flashes another wicked smile, a glint of satisfaction in his snake-like eyes. "Very good. Then you and I are going to get along nicely, Peeta," he says, and I grimace at the mentioning of the word "nicely" while I nod obediently.

"How are you enjoying your stay at the Capitol, Peeta?"

"I would hardly call it a stay, but I suppose I can't complain. The Capitol does a nice job of helping me forget about how and why I am here," I reply, and immediately I regret letting it slip from my lips. I am sitting across from a President, and a very powerful one at that. Something in Snow's eyes, however, indicates that he is satisfied with the truth, and I feel my body ease against the constraints of the chair.

"Very nice. And I assume you received my letter last week?"

"Yes, I did," I say quickly, remembering his threatening words all too well.

To my surprise, Snow stands. He is smaller than he appears onscreen or before large crowds; yet standing before me and looking down at me, he is still menacing.

"Peeta, I believe the instructions in my letter were very, very clear. I asked that you tell Caesar Flickerman the truth about the rebellion, and about what you and Katniss Everdeen knew. I also gave you the warning of Caesar asking you a specific question, and I implied that you would need to give him a specific answer. After watching that interview, and hearing you suggest a cease-fire of all things, I can _honestly_ say that I have a difficult time believing that the two of you did not know anything about the rebellion of District Thirteen."

"President Snow," I interject hastily. "The first time I had heard about Thirteen's existence came from your letter. And you watched the Games. Katniss was skeptical about every alliance in that arena, and any time someone even mentioned doing us a favor, she was just as confused as I was. We knew nothing. I know it may not look that way now that she is in Thirteen and I'm not, but I am telling you the truth."

He is eerily silent. Without making a sound, he moves from behind the desk to a vase of freshly picked white roses, pruned and primped to perfection.

"You know what strikes me as odd, Peeta? Why save only Katniss and not you if you were both innocent? Why separate the star-crossed lovers of District Twelve?"

"It wasn't our choice…"

"It wasn't _your _choice," Snow echoes, twisting the words and snapping his neck in my direction. "Doesn't your dispensability bother you, Peeta? The fact that you've been here for over a month, and nobody—not your mentor Haymitch, not your family, not even the mother of your dead child—has even attempted to rescue you?"

I shift in my seat under his hardened gaze. He makes a valid suggestion. "It does bother me," I admit, not only because it is what he wants to hear me say, but because it is the truth. I think back to the arena, and my thoughts on the beach as I handed over the locket to Katniss and told her to live because nobody needed me.

The statement never resonated more than it did in this very moment, as I sat trapped in a room with President Snow, protecting everyone despite their clear disinterest in me. I shake my head, because having it the other way around would be the more agonizing scenario. If it were Katniss in this chair and me in District Thirteen, I would be more terrified than I am now. The rebels of Thirteen obviously need Katniss, just as I do. As for me, I am exactly what the President refers to me as: _dispensable_. I have been _dispensable _for as long as I can remember.

"And yet here you are, still trying to rescue _her. _I suppose calling for a cease-fire, even though it is clearly not where the heavily armed and ready Capitol truly stands, was your solution to keeping her safe and sound?"

"Yes, it was," I answer honestly, grateful that the topic of conversation has veered away from my expendability. "Even if it wasn't the best response to your request, I had to do what I could to protect Katniss."

Snow lets out a belly laugh at this comment. His laughter rockets off of the walls and seems to bounce back at me like bullets. I wince, wanting more than anything to have the black bag over my head again.

"You're protecting Katniss. That is sweet, Peeta. That is dreadfully sweet. I wonder if she feels the same way for you. Now tell me, are you or are you not protecting her due to the fact that she knew of the rebellion?"

"No!" I shout. Unlike Snow's cackle, my refusal comes out as a pitiful squeak, barely able to ricochet off of one wall. I remember our wasted attempts at convincing him that we were in love and continue with urgency, "I love her! I married her! We were going to have a baby!"

"Calm down, Mr. Mellark," Snow chastises me. "There's no need to remind me of your baby ruse. Clever, indeed, faking a pregnancy and elopement. Nicely done, but not good enough to convince me still, I'm afraid, that she was in love with you." Several deep breaths on my part later, Snow has finally made it over to my chair, snake eyes just inches from my own terrified blue eyes.

"For some odd reason, I believe you, Peeta. I believe that _you_ know absolutely _nothing_," he says the final word with a hiss, and I realize that I am not the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow he thought he had found when the Capitol's hovercraft picked me up in the crumpling arena instead of Katniss. Even Snow was beginning to believe that I was disposable.

"I do not, however, buy into the lie that Katniss Everdeen went into the Quarter Quell knowing nothing, even if it was at your expense. I know you are trying to protect her, Peeta, but has it ever occurred to you that she could have very well been withholding the information from you?"

Now I know that he is trying to get inside of my head and poison it, and that he is trying to turn Haymitch and Katniss against me. The idea still manages to flicker through my mind, despite my efforts to avoid it, and for a moment, my fists clench in rage. Katniss and our mentor have always had a convoluted relationship in which they understood each other in ways nobody else, including myself, could comprehend. Every point Snow has made has felt sickeningly true, so what makes his final point any different?

_No, _I remind myself. _You were a team. He is the enemy. _I remember, clear as day, hours upon hours of training alongside Katniss and Haymitch in preparation for the Quarter Quell. Those days, we were too tired to even think straight after training, let alone conspire. I remember standing stoically beside them at our reaping. I remember Haymitch agreeing to keep her alive for me. These memories are my ammunition, the truth that keeps the poison of the Capitol from hurting me.

I look down at my hands, and they may as well be in shackles. Memories are all I have left at this point.

"Answer the question," Snow presses.

"She would never do that," I insist through bared teeth. "She didn't know anything!"

"We agreed not to lie to each other, Mr. Mellark!" Snow booms angrily, and it sends every part of me cowering in fear. His eyes have narrowed into slits, and his breath—thick, hot, and reeking of blood— hits my face like the flames of a dragon.

"I am asking you one more time. You tell me the truth, and you get to go back to your luxury suite and wait out this war. If you lie again, you will face the consequences, Peeta Mellark. Now, consider what I have said carefully before you respond: Did Katniss Everdeen know information concerning the rebellion before she entered the Quarter Quell?"

"No," I spit out without hesitation, returning his stony glare. Whether or not I believe myself is a mystery, but my priority is making Snow believe that I have faith in my answer and I harden my glare. We remain frozen there, in a deadly staring contest, until he peels himself away and turns back to his roses.

"I am truly disappointed in you, Peeta," he says softly, and two Peacekeepers enter on cue. He turns to the men in white and barks, "Imprison this victor. He is a threat to our nation and cannot be trusted."

The last image I have before the black bag goes back over my head again is Snow's chilling grin, followed by him coughing and retracting to find a drop of blood on his pristine white glove.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I managed to grab some downtime today, so here you are and hope you enjoy the next installment of GTWK! Thanks again for the continued support in the story, it means so much to know that you're reading and liking it! Keep reviewing, I'd love to hear even more about what y'all think! **

**Also, just putting it out there for people who have mentioned it - I'm a big fan of Everlark and Gadge, so while it may seem to take a while for all of that to come together in this story, just remember where my heart lies. Hope that eases any of the worries anyone may have had concerning couples :)**

**Thanks again! I'll do my best to get the next chapter to ya as soon as I possibly can!**

**-ILoVeWicked**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

**Chapter 7 **

**Gale**

"Morning, Gale. Morning, Mockingjay!" Plutarch's voice raises three octaves and he tests the waters with Katniss' new nickname as we enter the Control Room. Her eyes send him daggers, she grumbles a weak response, and picks up the sheath of arrows and bow that Beetee specially designed for her propos. She begins absentmindedly running her fingers over the sleek black metal, paying attention to no one. Normally a morning person, Katniss is in rare form this particular morning.

I recall standing outside of her door for twenty minutes earlier as she emptied her stomach's contents and Prim distracted me with stories of Buttercup. I suddenly piece together why her countenance is less than cheery to be filming at the crack of dawn and mirror her grimace. The morning sickness should have ended with her first trimester, but the medication to ensure that the baby remains healthy despite the injuries sustained by Katniss in the arena have altered her system drastically.

Plutarch simply smiles. He's happier than Posy would be when I brought her on surprise trips to the candy shop back in Twelve. His attitude has made a complete turnaround, and he's almost too cheery to be in close proximity to.

Heavensbee is not the only one who has made an attitude readjustment. Since viewing Peeta's interview with Caesar—an interview which she was technically not allowed to see due to further jeopardizing the Mockingjay's mentality, according to Coin—Katniss has taken on the persona of a martyr, willing to die for the cause of whatever it is that Peeta Mellark's short moment onscreen has ignited in her. It bothers me, but at least she has finally complied with Coin in order to keep us all safe.

Standing beside Plutarch and fiddling with a notepad is a woman who Plutarch introduces to us as Fulvia Cardew. A former Capitol citizen, as indicated by the silvery flower petals tattooed to her pale skin, she is a rebel who is familiar with press and advertising and will be in charge of directing Katniss' propos. Her voice is tinny and she all but whines at Plutarch to get the show on the road before Plutarch holds up a meaty finger.

"Just a minute, I've got something for our special girl," he says while winking at Katniss, which evokes a quizzical crinkle of Katniss' nose. He rushes over to the supply closet on the opposite side of the room and whips out a large box. Grinning dopily, he slides the box across the table, past Fulvia and myself, and it just barely collides with Katniss' bump. I am about to call the man out on his insanity when he cocks his head in Katniss' direction, an all-knowing look in his eye that I am supposed to, and helplessly fail to, catch on to.

I stare intently at the otherwise ordinary box, as does Katniss. Together, our eyes flit to the center of the box as something catches in the light. There is a golden emblem etched into the white box's cover, and Katniss nearly tips over as she gasps in recognition. Her eyes welling with a fresh batch of tears, she hurls the cover of the box over her shoulder and lifts up a small piece of paper.

"To the Girl on Fire: I'll never stop betting on you. Love, C," Katniss reads aloud shakily. She continues to tear through the box's contents to find several suits of armor. I have to stifle a sharp intake of breath myself upon seeing how intricate, regal, and intimidating all of the costumes are. These were designed for a warrior, and not just any warrior. Katniss stretches out the elastic abdomen of one of the suits and smirks to herself as her hand finds its way to her child. That stylist must have been one incredibly smart man.

How Cinna was killed, nobody truly knows. When Snow broadcast Cinna's image along with a sardonic eulogy to the nation, I thought he had disappeared forever. I gaze at the armor in Katniss' hands and realize that Cinna, regardless of whether or not he knew of his fate going into the rebellion, had other plans.

Katniss is staring and mouths his name. I nod, smile, and stare into her eyes, hoping it is encouragement enough on my part. Peeta and Cinna, two people physically lacking from her life, have managed to keep her afloat, and I, the best friend, am here and have barely provided a crutch for her to lean on these past few days. I take in how truly grateful she is for the message from Cinna's ghost and make a mental note to improve my own attitude.

"He fought for this cause up until the moment he died, Katniss. That's the message these propos need to get across to the Districts and to the Capitol: that the rebels will not stop fighting for this cause till they have exhausted their final breath," Plutarch speaks nobly, and Katniss, to my surprise, nods along. There is a hint of vengeance in her eyes as her hand floats from her new wardrobe, to her bow, to her baby. Fulvia coughs deliberately and shatters what little sentimental moment everyone else in the room was having.

"We're going to need to get going if we want to have enough time to figure out what image we want to present in the first propo. Let's get to it!"

We follow Fulvia and Plutarch like a gaggle of geese, Katniss struggling to position her bow over her bump and me juggling her dozens of costume pieces. By some miracle, we make it to the elevator, which is strictly reserved for those with communicuffs. Plutarch and Fulvia have been talking non-stop about trivial details—which lighting will make Katniss look most terrifying, how she should grip the bow when she speaks, how to avoid filming below her torso as creatively as possible—but I have stopped listening.

The elevator is made entirely of glass, and through the thick tube's walls, I am able to see the many layers of Thirteen as we descend into the studio. Where people eat, sleep, and live lies in the upper levels of the district. The lower levels are reserved for strictly revolutionary purposes. I am used to nearly all of it at this point, but in this tube, holding the Mockingjay's suits of armor, I am reminded that I am trapped underground. My weaponry room is on the tenth floor below ground level, and even then I am able to feel the suffocation of the earth above me at times. I silently yearn for my first trip above ground, hunting with Katniss and feeling the freedom of the forest course through my veins once again.

I sigh and gaze out toward the elevator's walls when I note that the floor we have reached is unfamiliar to me. I look over at the buttons signaling floor numbers and notice that only thirteen, unlit buttons are tacked to the wall of the elevator. We have been travelling for far too long to be only thirteen floors underground, and a shiver travels down my spine as I realize that Fulvia and Plutarch have access to levels that barely anyone knows about. Finnick Odair's words concerning trust ring in my ears and I gather a handful of armor in my fist to keep me from acting out and punching a hole through the glass.

Katniss seems to take note of this absurdity as well, and as Plutarch raves about using wind effects, she leans over to me and whispers, "How deep does this District go?"

I shrug, unsure of the answer myself.

Finally, we reach the designated floor and Fulvia holds the door for Katniss and me to lead the way, followed by Plutarch. We walk wordlessly, shoulder to shoulder, like two soldiers preparing to march into battle rather than two friends going to film a short propaganda. The tension between us is palpable, and behind us, Fulvia and Plutarch have grown silent, leading me to believe that they can sense it as well. I hold back from sighing as my heart aches for the world around us to disappear and for the tall trees of our forest to emerge in its place. My eyes dart up to the ceiling and I realize that these are my current circumstances. If the girl beside me, of all people, can still keep her head held high, then I can too.

So I muster up all of my courage and put it behind the weight of my body as it playfully shoves against her. The initial shock of my brute force colliding with her unsuspecting figure nearly sends her off balance, and her mouth flies agape in surprise. Steadying herself against the wall, she peers up at me. I bite the inside of my cheek, half expecting her to slap me across the face and call me out for harassment, but to my surprise, laugher gurgles from her throat as she shoves me back. Her genuine happiness is my doing, and it causes a smile to form on my own lips, stretching the unused lines on my face.

We giggle and continue our rough-housing down the hall. To the armed guards around us, and the Gamemaker and filmmaker behind us, we must look like we are no better than two five-year-olds. Yes, we look incompetent, foolish, and childish, but we are happy.

We're so lost in our game that we fail to notice the wall of guards that builds before us and cuts us off.

"What are you doing down here?" one of the guards barks, snapping Katniss and I out of our laughing stupor.

"F-filiming a propo?" Katniss offers weakly. Plutarch and Fulvia have caught up with us at this point. Plutarch lays two protective palms on either of Katniss' shoulders and stares intently at the guards.

"What seems to be the trouble, men? You _do _realize that you are accosting the _Mockingjay, _right?"

Not one guard seems to be fazed by Plutarch's comment.

"No trespassing beyond this point, President's orders," the guard curtly replies, puffing out his chest as he speaks. Plutarch has his comunicuff-clad wrist in several of the guards' faces, and while Fulvia and I look on, I feel the familiar warmth of a certain body leave my side and crawl between the legs of two distracted guards.

It reminds me of her stealthy days in the forest, disregarding all rules and regulations and human interaction in general when she had her mind set on her prey. And right now, her prey was whatever was on the other side of that door.

Just as I would if I had a snare at hand, I follow her without hesitation.

By the time the guards, Fulvia, and Heavensbee discover what has transpired during their argument, it is too late. The Mockingjay valiantly grabs hold of the door handle and swings it toward us.

What she finds makes her drop her bow, the tip of its glossy black curve chipping off.

Three piles of skin and bones sit trembling in the corner of the dimly lit room. Their clothes are torn and their hair hangs limply from their scalps. The faded color palette on each of them indicates that these prisoners are from the Capitol.

That still does not explain why Katniss is now hysterical, her shaking hands fighting to lift the drooping chins of these figures to meet her gaze.

"Flavius? Venia? Octavia? Please, please, look at me!" she pleads. They tremble and shy away from her touch.

As she recoils, Katniss mutters, more to herself than anyone else in the room, "What have they done to you?"

"After the arena was destroyed, Snow ordered the death of all twenty-four prep teams," Plutarch quips. "Portia and Peeta's other stylists were murdered on live television. The rebels managed to rescue these three, and—"

"Why are they being held prisoner?" Katniss seethes through gritted teeth, cutting him off. The man, or the sad excuse of what used to be Flavius, raises his head from the nest of his arms and his lower lip trembles. The two women are openly weeping, their malnourished bodies convulsing with sickening motions.

"Because, well, they're still Capitol citizens," Plutarch's cheerful demeanor is barely even believable to him, and it is evident in the way in which he wrings his hands together that he fears the wrath that follows angering the Mockingjay. "Coin had them held prisoner until we could conduct further questioning."

"Which was how long ago?" Katniss spits out vehemently. Plutarch bows his head. It is clear that his knowledge of the fate of Katniss' prep team ends there, and it's all she needs to hear. "She was never going to question them…just let them starve to death."

For a brief moment, Katniss' eyes flicker to meet mine, and I see firsthand what the rest of the nation sees in her. Armed, ready, and prepared to fight for the cause, she is a warrior. But is her cause even the right one? I scratch my head, puzzled by the scene before me. The chances that these three knew anything of the rebellion are slim, meaning that despite their connection to Katniss and Cinna, they are just three brainwashed Capitol citizens. Coin must have figured that out and sent them to the most secluded caverns of Thirteen to avoid conflicts such as this.

So why is Katniss flashing her communicuff in Plutarch's face, screaming obscenities about being the Mockingjay, and fighting for their freedom?

Minutes later, the prep team is let go and ordered by Katniss to be sent to her mother's station at the hospital, and I watch in disgust as the Capitol wins yet another small battle.

* * *

"It was revolting, Magde! They were prisoners, the rebels' prisoners from the Capitol! All it took was a wave of her hand and _poof! _They were set free. I just don't get how she doesn't understand that she's fighting_ for_ the rebellion and not _against_ it. For once, she needs to take that hot head of hers and tell it to shut up…"

I have been ranting to Madge for at least fifteen minutes. Hours upon hours of mounting anger and disappointment in Katniss had been testing my patience for an entire afternoon of watching her film propos, both of us acting as though she did not set free three Capitol citizens in the halls of Thirteen. Madge sits patiently on her bed, mug of tea in her hands. Her soft blue eyes follow me as I pace back and forth throughout her room.

Madge and I had settled into the routine of coming to each other to talk years ago. Before losing Katniss to the Hunger Games, I insisted upon shrugging the mayor's daughter off. She was from a privileged world that I wanted no association with, the Capitol's world. But then Katniss left, never to return entirely the same, and there was Madge with a Mockingjay pin, good ears, and open arms. Each day we spent together watching the Games, I was proven wrong in my former accusations against her. She was not a product of the Capitol by choice, but by chance.

When she is finally able to get a word in edgewise, her eyes look uncharacteristically hesitant. Madge and I have always been nothing but straightforward with each other, even with the answers we know the other one does not want to hear, but now there is something that is off in her stare.

"Gale, I know you're upset, but you have to remember that this was Katniss' prep team. They spent a lot of time together, time behind the scenes of what we watched. For all we know, she could have had just as close of a relationship with them as she did with Cinna."

What she says makes complete sense, but I am not about to let her get the last word.

"No," I fire back, denying both her and my senses. "I saw the way she looked when she thought about Cinna. She looked heartbroken and miserable. But when she saw these three Capitol goons she looked…she just looked pissed off."

A playful smile spreads across Madge's lips. I look back at her, skepticism written all over my facial features. How can she be laughing at a time like this? "Well, then I guess it's good that the Mockingjay is able to get angry, right? Was she at least convincing in her propos after the prep team was released?"

"It took her some warming up, naturally," I mutter, kicking at the carpeted floor of Madge's compartment. "Haymitch wasn't fully satisfied, though. Said something about the revolution dying with the way she performed. So, they want to send us to Eight to get some live action footage of her in order for it all to be really effective."

"You want to know what I think?" Madge asks after some moments of prolonged silence, her quiet voice bristling with oncoming wisdom, "Let this one go, Gale. It's Katniss! The girl is literally the poster child for defying the Capitol, even before she became the big, bad 'Mockingjay'. I doubt three prep team members are going to wreak any havoc on District Thirteen…unless it's serial eyebrow waxings."

"It's not about the prep team, it's about the principle behind it!" I reply angrily, failing to notice the clash in our tones. How Madge has remained so level-headed these past few years baffles me. Madge Undersee had the world ripped from under her feet when she lost her family, home, and social standing after the bombing of District Twelve. She's hurt, broken, and angry about it. I can see it in her eyes sometimes when she speaks or watches the news. Those eyes harbor the flames of an angry girl caught in the midst of rebellion, the flames that Katniss' eyes carry permanently.

Unlike Katniss and I, however, Madge was brought up to always control her temper. In fact, our "talks" usually consist of me ranting and her listening. Never have I heard Madge raise her voice. She isn't hasty like I am, like Katniss is. She is calculative, intuitive. Every thought, sentence, word that Madge Undersee utters is carefully picked and crafted to sound like it came straight from the mouth of someone much older and more mature. She is a locked music box, beautiful inside and out, but tricky to open. Just once, I would like to be able to crack open the box and understand the origins of the sweet music she produces. A glimpse into her world is all I need, and maybe I can begin to figure out the enigmatic girl who always seems to be there.

"I'm sorry, Madge," I say pitifully, finally backing down. "It's just hard…to see her going through all of this and not being able to do anything about it. Sometimes, I wonder if she's going to be able to pull this off and keep all of us alive…and I feel horrible for saying that, but she could barely get a grip on her temper today. What does the future have in store for the Mockingjay?"

My communicuff goes off, signaling that I am needed in control. Madge follows me wordlessly to the door, and before she shuts herself away from me again, her pink lips part and the voice of the lilting melody within her emerges yet again.

"She's your best friend, Gale. She has almost an entire nation living off of her hope. Give her a chance. People like her, the ones who've been through hell, are usually the ones who surprise you the most."

I leave, wondering what surprises Madge Undersee has in store for me.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

**Chapter 8 **

**Madge**

_It is past time for curfew. The streets of the town square are oddly desolate, and I am still unused to Commander Thread's stringent ruling. Countless nights of quietly creeping outside to the square and handing out provisions to those searching for them from the Seam are distant memories to me now. _

_Nights of watching coverage of the Hunger Games with Gale Hawthorne perched by my side have disappeared as well. Since his whipping and the beginning of the Quarter Quell, my nights of silently praying for the "Star-Crossed Lovers" and clutching my mug of tea until my knuckles turned white have been spent alone. My contribution was enough to keep Gale alive physically, but I know for a fact that emotionally there is no amount of morphling that can numb the heart of the spectators who are personally linked to the Games._

_Tonight, however, I am standing. The mug in my hands has fallen to the ground and lies at my feet in shards. Katniss shoots a wire-covered arrow into the stormy night sky. She and Finnick Odair are propelled several yards from the Lightening Tree, where Beetee lies unconscious. Johanna and Peeta are nowhere in sight as the ceiling of the arena begins collapsing around the fallen victors._

_The final image that flickers across my television screen before being replaced with static is Katniss Everdeen being lifted by the clutches of a hovercraft. _

_I stumble backward, gripping the hem of my nightgown, until the backs of my bare legs collide with my sofa. My mind tells me to sit, process what has happened, and try to create a logical response for the series of events that ends in Katniss and Peeta's safety. My heart tells me to disregard curfew and run to the Hawthorne's as fast as I can. _

_But I am paralyzed, unable to act upon either notion, to even flinch. I simply stare into the chasm of static before me. I may be the Mayor's daughter, but contrary to everyone's belief, I do not side with the Capitol. Countless years of watching children my age—my father's houseguests, my classmates, my friends—be killed while one slip of paper containing my name remained snuggly tucked at the bottom of that glass bowl has made it nearly impossible for me to grin and bear it. I can tell by the way my father rarely enforces Capitol rules and the way in which he has perfected emotionally detaching himself from his opening speech at the reapings that even he cannot buy into the Capitol. We are both trapped in a position where we cannot express that. I drift to sleep with bitter thoughts against the Capitol and the Hunger Games racing through my mind._

_I am dreaming of being wrapped in the deadly fog of the clock-shaped arena when I am awakened by the sound of cannon fire. _

_Rushing to my window, I gasp in horror as I realize that the sound was not coming from my nightmare, but from whatever has set the neighborhood down the road aflame. My eyes wander to the sky and spot several hovercrafts in formation, travelling in the direction of District Twelve. I watch as each of them releases a humongous, black object that erupts into flames as it collides with the Earth, sending the world around me up in blinding shades of red and the ground quivering beneath me. _

_The blood-curdling scream that echoes through my halls barely sounds like my own. _

_My father is at my side instantly. _

"_Madge, the District is under attack. I have to stay here and send out orders," he tells me, and I can tell by the bags under his eyes that he has also been watching the Games, almost as if he anticipated this alleged attack. I shiver like a leaf in his strong arms and can feel the fear that radiates from his voice. I gaze up at him. He is the Mayor. The Peacekeepers should be protecting us. We should be in a bomb shelter, my father sending orders from a safe place. We are still in the midst of battle and the saddened look in my father's eye tells me that no rescue team is coming for us. The Capitol is angry at Katniss, and angry at the leader whose lenient ruling of his District has raised a rebel and traitor. _

_The Capitol is going to kill my family with these firebombs. _

"_Daddy, we need to go. They're coming for us. We need to get Mother and go _now_," I insist, hands gripping fistfuls of his sweat-soaked shirt. My father pushes me off of him and I rise to my feet in horror. _

"_No, Madge. _You _need to go. Your mother is too sick to even begin to try to bring her outside. I am the Mayor who is responsible for this District, and it is my responsibility to protect it under attack...even if it means sacrificing myself." _

"_Daddy!" I shriek, lunging back at him with full force, fists beating against his chest as he resists me. Outside, the cries and screams of uncovered citizens pierce through the walls. _

"_Madge, ever since the Districts began rebelling, your mother and I agreed that our priority would be to make sure you got out alive in the case of an attack. There isn't much time. You must go, Madge. Run as quickly as you can to the forest at the outskirts of the Seam. They won't be dropping bombs there." _

_I don't want to run, I tell him. Not unless it's with him and my mother. I scream, kick, and fight like a small child, and all the while my father wordlessly carries me to the back door and hugs my crying form close to him. He throws open the door, and as I am shoved out of my home, he shouts, "I love you, Madge. Be brave. Your life doesn't end here—not tonight, not in Twelve. Make your mother and I proud." _

_I give myself five seconds. Five more seconds to wallow in my sorrow and soak in as much detail of my house and my father standing stoically at my door as I can before I turn and run._

_My bare feet barely make contact with the ground as I sprint through the town, promising myself that I will not look back. In a matter of split seconds, another explosion knocks me to my hands and knees in a pile of debris. Fisting handfuls of soot and swallowing the lump in my throat, I know without having to look over my shoulder that my family has perished at the hands of the Capitol. _

_Father's words ringing in my ears, I decide that I can either wait for the next firebomb to take me out or I can run to the forest. All at once, I am back on my feet. Adrenaline courses through my veins as I run through the flaming streets. My feet sting from the shards of glass embedded in my heels and my lungs scream for air, but my determination pushes me past my pain. _

_As I run, I encounter dozens of faces. Some faces are charred, trapped in a halo of flame that I cannot rescue them from. They run like the demons of my childhood nightmares, rabid and out of control. Others have sustained minor injuries from the attack. Their frantic circles indicate that they have nowhere left to turn and that they will die unless they get to the forest. I gather those people, instructing them to follow me and to move quickly. Many recognize my face and obey, but the occasional terrified citizen is too wrapped up in their own fear to comprehend my orders. When I begin to reach the Seam, burning and barely populated, I look behind me at the small congregation that has formed. They are scared, they are confused, and they are hurt. _

_But above all, they are looking to _me _to make the next move. _

_I shamefully admit that, besides several visits with Gale and Katniss, I am unfamiliar with the Seam. I know very little about the dirt roads that weave in and out of the poorly constructed houses, and embarrassment dashes across my flushed cheeks as I muse that my closest friends come from this part of town. Even if it is up in flames and currently no different from the houses of the merchants, life in the Seam is a life that I never led. I am able to capture an idea of Katniss and Gale's lives before my thoughts are disrupted by the cries of a young girl, reminding me that I am not alone. _

"_Does anyone here know the way to the forest?" I bellow over the sounds of chaos and destruction. To my surprise, the same little girl that has been crying raises her hand. I notice that there is no adult by her side and my stomach clenches. Getting down on my bloodied, bruised knees, I ask her if she can help me lead the pack. She nods timidly, and together, the small, brave orphan helps the broken orphan of the Mayor navigate through the Seam. _

_We reach the tree line of what I assume is the forest and I let out a sigh of relief when the wall of red around me is exchanged for a fortress of green. The whoops, cheers, and sobs of the people behind me dissolve as I gaze into the thick underbrush of the forest, where I have only been once before, with him. _

_The little girl who has been helping me unclasps my hand and points to an area at the bottom of the hill. _

"_Look! Other people!" she breathes triumphantly. _

_We travel quickly down the hill. Familiar faces greet other familiar faces, and strangers hug for the sake of being alive. _

_His grey Seam eyes meet my dismayed blue eyes almost instantly. _

"_Madge," Gale says as his brawny arms, covered in ashes, wrap around me. My hands make their way around his broad shoulders, tentative of the scars on his back. "I—I can't believe it." _

"_My father and mother told me to come here," I tell him, my monotone voice incongruent to the roller-coaster of emotions that I am experiencing internally. "I grabbed whoever I could from the town." _

_Together, we look over at my flock, and I bite my lip as I count less than sixty people who have joined me. They stand among Gale's troupe of nearly two hundred, consisting of the entire Hawthorne clan and Katniss' mother and sister. The many that we could not save are currently perishing in the fiery hell of District Twelve. I shut my eyes tightly, praying that my father and mother experienced as little pain as possible in their final moments. _

"_I'm glad you're here," Gale whispers, taking my hands, which are trembling uncontrollably. _

"_I'm alive and my parents are dead. So many people in the District are dead. My father told me to be brave, but I don't feel brave," I mutter, turning away from him to hide the oncoming tears. So much for five seconds. To my surprise, he forcefully grabs my shoulders and spins me back around. Without warning, one tear escapes and my hand flies to my face to wipe it away. His hand is quicker than mine. _

_Without exchanging another word about what has just transpired between us, Gale's face hardens once again. "I'm going to need you to help me bring these people through the woods until we find some way to get rescued," he tells me, and I shake my head. _

"_Gale, I've been in these woods once. You know that. That hardly qualifies me to lead two hundred people through the wilderness." _

"_Once is more than anyone else here can say for themselves. You are the Mayor's daughter. All you need to say is 'jump', and they'll all ask 'how high'," Gale says, and I grimace. I want to correct him, to tell him that I 'was' the Mayor's daughter, and now that we're all trapped in this mess, they could turn on me in an instant. I look into his hard grey eyes and realize that I have no choice even before he asks me again. "Please, Madge. I need your help." _

"_Alright," I say finally. I turn and face the crowd before me and I allow the tear to free-fall this time, because I know it is the last tear I will be shedding for a while. _

_As Gale and I direct the traffic through the thick foliage of the forest to an unknown destination, my thoughts drift to my Aunt Maysilee's pin. The pin Katniss proudly wore twice in the arena with its wings outstretched and ready to take flight. _

_Gone is the frilly-dress wearing, obedient daughter of the Capitol, and reborn is Madge Undersee: the revolutionary. _

* * *

I watch his hunched-over shoulders walk away through the slightest crack in my door.

When I am certain that he is gone, I shut the door and lean against it, sighing heavily. What Gale Hawthorne wants or expects from me whenever he comes to talk is uncertain, and talking with him almost always results in me having to lie down from the sheer amount of stress and intensity that he brings to every conversation, yet I always find myself letting him back in.

I suppose that loving someone requires one to abandon all senses.

Though I did not know it at the time, I fell in love with Gale Hawthorne from the moment I first saw him. His father had just passed away in a mining accident, along with Katniss' father, and my father was expected to speak on their behalf. At eleven years old, with Katniss and Gale standing just within my reach, I was forced to understand what grief was. My mother had been mentally and emotionally absent from my life since as early as I could remember, but upon seeing the broken Everdeen and Hawthorne families, I understood the true despair of losing a parent altogether. I could still visit my mother in her room, still hold her hand, and even have a small conversation with her. Gale and Katniss would never get that pleasure. Gale stared blankly ahead, a scowl that reeked of being permanent painted on his face. I was ashamed to find myself analyzing how attractive he was at twelve years of age during his father's funeral, yet I could not tear my eyes away from him.

As my father's speech came to a close, he and I were expected to shake hands with the families of the fallen men. Mrs. Everdeen's ghostly touch scared me, Prim's feeble attempt at a handshake disheartened me, and Katniss barely looked me in the eye before walking offstage. All of the Hawthornes feigned smiles and courteous nods, and then, his hand was in mine. At twelve, his hand was already calloused and rugged, like that of a man's, like the man he would be forced to become.

I had not realized that I was crying that afternoon until his hand wiped the tear from my cheek. I dared myself to look into his eyes and was shocked to find that they had softened. Realizing his action immediately, he had wiped his hand on his pant leg and resorted back to his scowl.

I silently watched Gale Hawthorne walk home from school every day after that event. Never once did I muster up the courage to speak to him.

As the years went on, he grew up to hate the Capitol as I grew up to represent it. I became an easier target for his biting remarks and unforgiving glares every time he and Katniss came to deliver strawberries to my home. The resentful comments, on top of his budding friendship with Katniss, sent conflicting prickles of jealousy up and down my body with each encounter. She coveted how many slips of paper I had in the reaping bowl, but I coveted her friendship with him. I continually had to remind myself that he was not mine, and my only friend deserved happiness in her life.

That never stopped me from crying in my room whenever they would turn their backs, game at hand, and leave me. I could not help but yearn to be the girl with the bow and arrow jogging to keep up with his long strides, understanding fully that unless my social ranking magically changed overnight, I would never be that girl.

The day after Katniss and Peeta were reaped for the Hunger Games, Gale came to my door alone and without strawberries. We both knew that I had gone to visit Katniss before she was taken to the Capitol. In a desperate attempt to clear my name, I blurted out everything—my friendship with Katniss, my giving her the Mockingjay pin, and my hatred for how unfair this all was.

I did not realize that I had started to sob until those hands were wiping the tears away again. The surprises kept coming when he asked if I wanted to watch the Games with him. That first evening, he told me that I wasn't the Capitol Clone he had made me out to be before he travelled home. As odd of a compliment as it was, I went to bed smiling that night.

Katniss returned home, and I saw less and less of Gale Hawthorne. Those were the days where I saw less and less of myself in my lack of will to do much of anything without knowing that I would be able to see his face at the end of my day. How twisted and silly it was, I mused, that I _missed_ the Hunger Games.

I first admitted to myself that all of my confusing feelings for him over the years had somehow turned into love when I stole a supply of my mother's morphling and trekked through the worst snowstorm Twelve had seen in years to keep him alive after his whipping. It was the least I could do, after standing there in horror and watching him take Thread's abuse, the sensible side of me insisted. The selfish side of me, however, hoped that my bearing of the morphling would -force him to notice me again. Katniss had answered the door. _Of course_, I reminded myself, s_he had been the one to step in and help him when you hadn't. _I made her swear not to mention my name, and I spent the entire walk home wondering how I even could begin to compete with the Girl on Fire.

So, we stopped speaking. Gale and I. Katniss and I. I ostracized myself from the world I was never destined to be a true part of. Katniss and Peeta went back into the Games, and I waited foolishly for him to appear at my door. As a result, I foolishly found myself crying each time the sun set on another day that I did not get to hear his voice or look into those eyes.

No one was there to wipe my tears.

You have to be careful what you wish for, I soon learned. I suddenly became a part of his world the night of the bombing. Orphaned, destitute, and fragile, I was the shell of who I used to be when I found him at the bottom of the valley that evening.

He wiped away my final batch of tears and I discovered in that moment that I was hooked. I was pitifully, unrelentingly, and wholeheartedly in love with Gale Hawthorne.

When I had settled into my single quarters in Thirteen, communicuff clamped to my arm, I realized that the night my world exploded, he was what pushed me to survive the attack. I was running to him, for him. Hope that he would be waiting at the bottom of that valley is what carried me to the forest, outweighing all of my fears.

My wish to play a role in his life had finally come true, but at what cost was it all worth it? I sincerely doubted that when my father told me to be brave, he meant to use unrequited love as motivation to survive. Now, he and my mother were gone, along with so many in District Twelve, and I was alive. I was supposed to make them proud.

What was I going to do to make their sacrifice worth it?

My job description for the war cause is simple: obey the orders of anyone above me. Unlike Gale, I do not hold any ranking in the underground district's army—which I am grateful for, honestly—but being the Mayor's daughter and helping lead the refugees to safety qualifies me enough to earn me a communicuff from Coin. In the eyes of those who see what is dangling on my wrist, I am a hero.

But I feel far from heroic.

I sigh again and stare down at my communicuff, it representing all that I was not. My thoughts, not surprisingly, drift back to Gale.

As the Mayor's daughter, I dealt with a number of suitors early on. In attempts to tie the district to more well-off districts, my father orchestrated a teenager's dating hell. Political leaders from all over Panem would tote countless boys my age in their dressiest clothes—clothes that always struck a stark difference to my own—to have dinners with my father and I. They were all polite, good-mannered, and handsome, but not many of them tried to return to District Twelve after having a good look at all of what the district had to offer. Those who revisited only returned more pompous with age and power, and I turned them away. I could tell it hurt my father to see the District in such a hopeless state in the future, but I remained adamant in my belief that my love did not need to be pawned off. My own personal way of cheating the system of the upper-class. Eventually, Father stopped trying, and District Twelve slipped further under the radar.

I blame myself for this every day now that he and the District are gone.

And then, of course, there were the suitors that came to me for reasons that were not political. When it first became apparent that I was in fact growing into my body, boys began to notice me. Times that were not strained by the stress of the reapings were spent by my classmates passing love letters, doodling in notebooks, and admiring each other from afar. My walks home were often bombarded by big-headed merchant boys who competed for my hand to a dance or a stroll around the town square. The rumor-mill had even conjured up that Peeta Mellark had a crush on me when I was fifteen. One look at him staring lovingly at Katniss Everdeen in the courtyard after classes was all I needed to tell me that the rumor was not true.

All of these boys were different from the boys I was forced to mingle with. They were good-hearted, kind, and often genuinely wanted to be with me. Years of politely turning them down turned into barely a second glance in the hallways.

It was all because, like Peeta, I had my eyes on someone else. Gale Hawthorne is by no means like any of the men I had dealt with in my life. He is brutish, hot-headed, impulsive, and at times downright rude. Everyone in town knew it, and everyone in Thirteen admires it.

But I have seen the Gale Hawthorne that he refuses to reveal. I have seen him at his rawest, most compassionate moments. I have seen the way he shuts his eyes during intense moments of Hunger Games footage, the way he hugs his younger sister and steals extra food for Prim, and I have seen the way his eyes light up when he looks at Katniss Everdeen.

I love him, with all of the good and the bad, nonetheless.

I suppose the twelve-year-old boy inside of Gale was still grateful for the sympathy I had shown him years ago, although he would never admit it aloud, and decided to return me the favor. He brought me meals, continually checked in to make sure I was "holding up alright", and constantly popped by to talk about anything to keep my mind off of my personal tragedies once we arrived in Thirteen.

I was grateful for his sympathy, if nothing else.

Katniss arrived days after, and I mentally prepared myself for the visits to become less frequent, but it was Katniss who surprised us both by being three months pregnant with Peeta's child. Gale's visits to my room experienced their peak during this time.

As Haymitch delivered the news of Katniss' 'special condition' to her closest family and friends, I seemed to be the only one noticing Gale beginning to crumble. I silently followed him out of the room and watched him punch a wall. And that is when I realized how his heart worked:

I was the one he felt obligated to care for.

He could not control how much he cared about her.

As much as I wanted to physically lash out due to my own heartbreak upon watching Gale make a scene, I remained frozen in the crowd. He sunk to the floor, and for a fleeting moment, I caught sight of the pain the twelve-year-old boy never allowed himself to experience.

So, as much as I was hurting, I sat down beside him and let him mope for as long as he needed to. Because, whether we are adversaries, allies, confidants, or friends, Gale Hawthorne and I have always looked out for each other.

* * *

**A/N: I got lucky with my time again, so here's a little bit of Madge for ya!**

**Sorry if the beginning seems a bit slow and stagnant right now. I have the entire plotline of where I want this to go figured out and I promise that the action and excitement will pick up as the characters and story progresses. Bear with me! Thanks again for all of the feedback in your reviews! I want you to know that I am reading them and really enjoying what you have to say and taking into heavy consideration the ideas you bring to the table. I'm open to any and all comments, ideas, suggestions, etc! I'll update as soon as I can! Thanks again!**

**-ILoVeWicked**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

**Chapter 9 **

**Katniss**

I have grown sick of morning sickness.

The chemical imbalance inside of me—daily dosages of hormones and medicines to keep the baby growing healthily combatting with my body's defenses against them brought on by my own stress and anxiety —churns my stomach into a tizzy that sends me to the waste basin routinely throughout the day. The morning, right as I wake up from a fitful night of very little sleep, is usually the worst. I suppose it is my punishment for not experiencing regular morning sickness due to being comatose during that stage in my pregnancy. Pitifully sitting in the corner of my room, on my knees and coughing into the waste basin, is a daily reminder that there is no aspect of my life that can be made easier.

Prim worriedly wrings her hands together behind me, cold cloth readily draped over her shoulder. "Katniss? Need any help?" she asks innocently. I wipe a sweaty strand of hair from my eyes and shake my head into the basin, lips pursed in disgust. Bodily fluid of any kind does not faze my unwavering, stoic younger sister. The sight of my own secretions brings on urges within me to dry-heave the contents of my stomach, which are barely there after the previous purge.

Truth be told, I do need help. But what I need, and who I need, is something my sister cannot provide. I yearn for Peeta's careful hands holding back my hair, his soothing whispers coaxing me out of my sickness, his unwavering presence at my side.

"No, Little Duck. I'm fine," I lie, choking back oncoming waves of nausea. Prim wordlessly hands me the rag, a sign of her quiet acceptance, and takes a few steps back.

"Ok. Well, if you need anything at all, you know where to find me. Feel better, Katniss," she barely whispers before gathering her things quietly so as not to disturb my retching before she moseys off to work.

I sigh, slowly lifting myself from the ground and gripping onto the bedpost for balance. Physically, no, I am far from fine. A seventeen-year-old's body is not designed to carry a child and a rebellion all at once. My inability to hold down a meal coupled with my fatigue indicates that my body is deteriorating at a time when it needs to be at its physical prime, which is enough to worry anyone about their health. And then, of course, there is the fear of the unknown concerning Peeta that eats away at me more so than any amount of acid in my stomach could. There have been plenty of mornings where I want nothing more than to lay in bed all day long, for fear that my lack of equilibrium or the thought of Peeta would send me to the waste basin permanently. The need to fulfill my duties as Mockingjay and keep everyone, including myself, this child, and its father, alive was what forced me to sit up straight every morning. The fear of crashing and burning and subsequently failing keeps me running on autopilot.

Mentally, I was not fine, either. The exhaustion in my body received no reprieve due to my lack of sleep. My nightmares were far worse than they had ever been before: me, standing in battle and going up into flames while Snow laughed and looked on, Peeta being publicly executed, Gale receiving another whipping, Prim being carried off by a Capitol hovercraft, Coin's icy eyes as she tells me that I have failed her. These nightmares I now have to face alone, without the comfort of waking up in Peeta's secure embrace.

The most detailed, realistic, and graphic nightmare was a fairly new installment to my program of terrors. In it, a small, frail figure with wild slate eyes and tousled blonde locks is being chased by someone, something—a mutt. Her tiny legs barely propel her through the thick forest, but she pants and pushes her way through anyway, constantly just making it out of the mutt's reach. She encounters a dead end, a willow tree, and screams. The sound is piercing.

Those eyes, betwixt with genuine sincerity, horror, and an all too familiar stubbornness, lock with the predator's eyes as she screeches, "Why, Mommy? Why are you going to kill me?"

In that moment in my nightmare, the mutt lifts up her bow and arrow and prepares to strike at the blonde girl's heart.

I never make it to the end to see if the monster shows her daughter mercy and lets her go. I often wake in a cold sweat, terrified and grasping at my stomach to make sure the familiar bump that I had come to know and accept was still a part of me.

There are days when I cannot shake the girl in my dream from my mind. I never wanted children. It was a vow I had made to myself even before Prim was reaped. It was too risky, rearing a child into this cold world, exposing another loved one to the chance to fight to the death in the Hunger Games.

Children of the Seam, additionally, received the shortest end of the stick. Born into poverty and starvation, many of the grey-eyed, olive-skinned mining children barely make it to the age to be reaped, and if they do, they are the most nonessential citizens. Bitterly, I remember that the Seam no longer exists to produce such poor human beings. The memory does nothing, however, to shake the thought of my old home, cramped and covered in soot, and the food I bring home being barely enough to feed the new little mouth whose starvation is nobody's fault but its mother's.

I grimace, kicking at the full waste basin with the toe of my boot. I did not have much of a choice now, did I? In a way, I truly _was_ the monster in my dream, throwing my child into the fray of death without thinking of the implications of his or her future. Regardless of whether or not this child was born in District Twelve or Thirteen, its life would be by no means "easy". Regardless of whether the child's mother was the Mockingjay or a destitute member of the Seam, I was the one to blame for the hardships.

There's a knock on the door. remember that emotionally, for today at least, I am fine. Gale and I are allowed aboveground for the first time in weeks to go hunting, and the one shred of normalcy in my former life that I wished to hold onto is finally coming back to me. My days have been jam packed with talk of war and preparations to go to Eight tomorrow, and the woods are a much needed reprieve.

I practically tear my arms through the holes of my father's hunting jacket and nearly break my bow—far less expensive than my custom-designed propaganda bow—as I make my way to the door. Gone are the woes of my appearance and morning struggle. Gone is the blonde girl in my dream. Standing before me, his old coat covering his grey District uniform, is my hunting partner. Time is suspended, and for a moment, there is no rebellion, no Quarter Quell, and no Hunger Games.

There is only me, Gale, and the pine-scented world of the forest.

I choose to refrain from looking over at my shoulder, where two guards stand to make sure that we do not run off and that we obey the hundred yard rule. Likewise, I choose to ignore the desolate, dry surroundings of Thirteen that make this forest unrecognizable. I want to keep the illusion up as best as I can. Leaves crunch under my boots as I creep about in search of prey, and Gale's wires chime as they clink together while he constructs a snare. I conjure up the image of the uncharged gate just outside of Twelve and my senses are filled with fond memories.

I can tell that being above ground has had somewhat of an effect on Gale as well. His steps are less heavy, his shoulders are less hunched, and his scowl is less prominent. The distance between us is marginal, and it feels comfortable to have been walking alongside him, weapons at hand, again. I could have lost him—if not to firebombs, than to the bomb I dropped on him with my betrayal. Yet, by some miracle, he chose to stay. He has not spoken much on the subject of my infidelity since we discussed it weeks ago. He has not spoken to me much at all. His sullen hankering about has been visible in him more than ever throughout our stay in Thirteen, and I know that I am to blame for whatever has caused an imbalance in his system as well. Nonetheless, we are both in the forest, hunting for game, and alone without responsibility for an hour. He should be happy, grateful even, that I was able to get us out here and away from the monotony of our lives and the demons in our heads.

That thought alone sends me bristling. Gale having a sullen attitude was not about to take away from the one shred of consistency in my life. It sounds selfish, but I will not let him take it from me, no matter how much I had taken from him.

"So, this is nice," I say finally, a fake smile pressed against gritted teeth. Gale looks up from his work and grunts in approval.

"It is. Feels just like old times," he replies, the hint of bitter nostalgia laced in his voice twisting the knife further into my back before he turns back to the snare.

The conversation lulls and falls silent immediately. My jaw clenches and unclenches as I watch the muscles in his back ripple and convulse through his jacket as he carefully threads his wires together against the roots of a tree. His silence, almost as frightening as Snow's, nearly sends me over the edge. The parallel forces a shiver down my spine. Snow and I are enemies. My most poignant memories of hating Snow come from the things he omitted saying or the actions he simply did not do. There is power in silence. This is not a path I want to travel down with Gale, but it seems to be the path he is intent on dragging me down. This is the path that strays from amity.

"Are you excited to travel to Eight tomorrow?" I ask hastily, nervously. Perhaps there is still a chance for me to save this friendship.

"You're going to scare away the game," is his terse reply. This time, he does not bother to look up at me.

In a unidirectional stare-down, I feel the blood boil in my veins and rise to my cheeks as my anger mounts.

"Screw the game," I shoot back impulsively like one of the arrows in my sheath. I throw my bow to the ground, which stirs up a flurry of leaves around my feet. The volume of my exclamation has sent flocks of startled birds into the air and whatever prey that was in the bushes darting past the one hundred yard mark. Gale watches a rabbit scurry out of sight and sighs audibly.

"What the hell was that, Katniss?" Gale demanded, ripping his snare from the tree and slamming it down to lay abandoned beside my bow.

"What the hell is _this, _Gale?" I nearly shout, arms outstretched in my exasperation. "I apologized—weeks ago and as soon as I could see you. I feel horrible about making you both believe I had chosen you. You know that and I know that. I'm forced to carry that guilt with me every single day. You have every right to be upset and to be hurt, but you told me you would be there for me. This passive-aggressive silent treatment isn't helping me feel any better. I'm supposed to lead a rebellion and save _your _life…"

"Exactly, Katniss! You're supposed to lead a _rebellion_. I couldn't give a damn about my life, which I am willing to sacrifice for this cause, but I can't stand here and watch everyone else suffer because of your inconsistency. You're supposed to move this fight against the Capitol _forward_. So, explain to me how using your power to release your prep team was not taking two steps _backward_?"

I freeze. "This isn't about me being pregnant with Peeta's child?" I ask, dumbfounded. My word choice has balled my question into a fist and punched him directly in the gut. I can tell by the hurt that dashes across his features that some part of him will always resent the fact that a part of Peeta will always lie between us.

"No, Katniss. You claimed to choose me and turned right around to sleep with him, and I clearly can't change that. I have no control over your romantic choices, but as a fellow soldier in this war, I can play a role in your strategic choices. You had no right to free that prep team without any orders—"

"They were _m__y _prep team, Gale!" My hands have found their way to my scalp, fingers twisting around strands of hair as they threaten to pull it from my head in frustration. His hateful words, spouted purely to make me feel guilty for him, roll off of my shoulders as I continue to fight. "You don't even know the half of what they did for me."

My guilt toward my friend Gale and the harm I caused him will have no expiration date. I feel no guilt for this soldier. That may be his title, but until he truly understood what it meant to fight for his life, to fight for someone else's life, in one of the Capitol-designed arenas, he would never understand my definition of warfare against the Capitol. As narrow-minded as Flavius, Octavia, and Venia were, they showed me compassion, pure adoration, in a time when I needed it most. Their job description was to help, not hurt, the tributes. No matter the region they identified to be from, they deserved to be set free rather than sentenced to the questionable fate Coin had granted them. If they stayed in that dungeon to starve to death, Thirteen would be no better than the Capitol.

"They supported the Capitol, Katniss! The Capitol is the enemy!"

"Snow and his Capitol followers are the enemy," I correct him, jumping on his phrases so furiously that neither of us has a second to breathe. Taking time to formulate thoughts is too costly. "Just because someone walks into Thirteen and has purple hair and tattooed skin doesn't make them a criminal!"

"We can't take any chances by trusting that someone claiming to be on our side is automatically harmless."

"But you trust Fulvia to film my propos. And Plutarch to give you orders. Gale, there's a reason why my prep team was brought to Thirteen and not executed along with the other prep teams."

"Coin wanted to question them!"

"They were starving and trapped in a cellar on a floor of the District which neither of us knew existed for a month. Does it really sound like they were going to be questioned any time soon?"

"Katniss," his voice is so loud it triggers the attention of the guards. He clears his throat and looks me directly in the eyes, something I am unused to as of late. He lowers his voice as he speaks, "I am not Coin. I don't know what her intentions were with your prep team. But I know that she is my commander and chief, and that her orders are to be obeyed. It's likely that those three didn't know what Cinna knew about the rebellion, and that makes them just about as good as any other Capitol robot who will do anything to keep their reputations safe."

"Listen to yourself!" I chide him, nearly in hysterics. I grab hold of his wrists, my fingers etching along the outlines of his communicuff through his sleeve, and throw them away from me. "You sound more brainwashed than anyone on my prep team ever did!"

Gale's grey eyes harden. In that moment, I realize that our friendship will never be what it was before the Hunger Games. We have both been molded with a new set of beliefs that only our individual experiences could have crafted. I could tamper with the given circumstances of our lives all I wanted, but putting a forest up around us was not going to change the fact that I was a Victor and he was a soldier. Being able to stand attention means that Gale has finally been given a justifiable outlet for all of his Capitol hatred, whereas I have seen the good, the bad, and the ugly of the Capitol from an insider's perspective that has given me clarity to the workings of the Capitol. We are two deadly animals, set in our ways of living and butting heads until the other surrenders.

"Listen to _you_, Katniss!" he shouts back, and I yearn to be called 'Catnip' once again. His hands are back on my forearms, shaking me violently as he speaks. "Do you have any idea how selfish you sound right now? I don't care about the morality of rescuing your prep team. Your duty was to leave them be and wait for Coin's instruction to take any action at all. You may have everyone else wrapped around your finger, but to that President, every move you make could potentially cost us all our lives, so you should think before you decide to kill us all."

There are certainly more spiteful words that spew from his mouth, but I have drowned them out. It is one thought in particular, however, that forces my sickness to take over. Gale's final statement mirrors the little girl in my nightmare's cries.

"_Why, Mommy? Why are you going to kill me?"_

All of the imbalances inside of me have acted up again, and as much as I want to spew my argument back at him, I know that the second I open my mouth to speak, a vile argument of a completely different kind will project all over him.

Without warning, I shove myself out of his grasp and stumble over to the closest tree I can find. My body barely allows me a moment to prepare myself before I am on my knees, upchucking acidic bile in the forest. The sound of my coughing and heaving is enough to make the animals of the forest migrate permanently.

"_Why are you going to kill me?" _

The tenderness of his touch is all I need to know that he feels guilty. When Gale places his palm on the back of my neck, I notice that I am shaking furiously.

"Hey…Hey, Catnip. I—I, uh, didn't mean for that argument to go that far. Are you alright? Everything fine?" his voice is softer, sweeter, and almost nurturing toward me. It's the closest I'll ever get to an apology.

Through labored breaths and blurry vision, I hoist myself back up and nestle into his arms, which instinctively wrap around me. This is the moment, albeit the cost of it, that I had longed for when I entered the forest this morning. Gale is not a soldier. Right now, Gale is my friend. This is the Gale I trust, the Gale I need to survive this war with. Given the way we cling to each other, I believe he can sense that. His fingers trace soothing circles on my back and his lips, softened from their scowl, kiss the top of my head.

We stand hugging, nature as our soundtrack, for what feels like hours. My eyes are plastered shut, for fear that opening them will force me to meet with the eyes of the blonde girl. I sigh, absentmindedly fiddling with the buttons on Gale's shirt.

No, I could not change how we both felt about this war, about Coin, and about how each other plans to keep us alive. Nor could I change the fact that the child I carried is not and would never be his. But maybe, if he understood how much the thought of being a mother terrified me more than any military position did, he would understand my actions and we could stay this way. Taking a leap of faith, I finally break the silence.

"Can I tell you something?" I whisper, my voice hoarse. Gale's grip tightens ever so slightly as he gives me confirmation to continue speaking.

"Sometimes, I wish the Capitol was right when they said I miscarried."

The words are coupled with a reel of envisioning the blonde girl, tripping over her feet and breathing heavily as her lungs scream for air while I hunt her down. A cascade of tears threatens to escape the carefully crafted wall I have built there.

Gale doesn't move. "No, you don't," he whispers back.

"Yes, I do," I whimper, letting the tears fall freely. "Because then I wouldn't have to worry about killing one more person I care about. I can't be a mother who willingly brings a child into this twisted, horrible world we have been forced to live in. I've done a lot of selfish things, Gale, but having this baby is at the very top of the list, way above letting my prep team go free. The moment the baby comes into the world, someone might as well hand it a death sentence. I'm not a life-bearer, I'm a murderer."

My words have become muffled by my sobs as I burrow my head into Gale's strong chest. He has known of my fear of children since we were children ourselves. Of all people, Gale is the person I would least expect to tear my crying form from his embrace and stare me down.

"Katniss, listen to me. You are not a murderer."

Wiping my eyes furiously with the back of my sleeve, I scoff at his statement. Where has he been the past few years? There are traces of bile in my throat, and they burn with each hiccupping sob. "Shut up, Gale. You and I both know that I am."

"Would you just listen for a _second_ before jumping in with some self-pitying statement?" Gale grumbles. My head snaps in his direction, eyes wide. This is supposed to be an _encouraging_ speech? Gale shrugs.

"That was uncalled for, but at least it got your attention. Look, that kid in there should be dead. Given all of the damage you went through in the arena, _you_ barely came out alive, so it's a miracle that the kid survived without any injuries. But to me, it means that he or she is persistent. It clearly doesn't want to go down without a fight…just like someone else I know. Katniss, you're going to be a mother. Sooner than you would like to have become one, yes, and not on your own terms, but you're going to be a mother to an amazing kid who, at three months old, decided it wanted to live to get to meet its mom. You could perform a thousand wrongs, but that baby will still look at you like you're the only thing that's right. So, let it be born. You've been through worse. Who knows? Maybe the little twerp will have the power to end this war before any of us get to. Our hour is up out here, we better get going."

Without giving me an ounce of room to reply, he turns away, picks up his belongings, and shuffles back toward Thirteen's guards.

Numbly, I bend over to pick up my bow. Something in the distance rustles and captures my attention. When I look up into the horizon of foliage, I am frozen in action. Blinking away the tears, I see the same girl from my dreams. She is no longer running from me, but rather running toward me, arms outstretched and smile beaming.

"I love you, Mommy!" she shouts happily before disappearing before me.

I reach out, wanting to stroke her golden locks, hold her close to my heart, and tell her that I love her too.

* * *

**A/N: Hello again! Sorry that it's been a few days...my schedule has been crazy and I've been swamped with work! But hope you enjoyed this chapter! **

**I know a lot of people are still questioning the relationships that are going to be in the story, so here's an answer I'm hoping will please everyone: I've decided to stick with the plotline, as well as Katniss' thoughts and feelings toward both Gale and Peeta, during _Mockingjay_ as closely as I can. Therefore, like the book, there will be moments of Galeniss laced throughout my fic-and at times, it may be frustrating, because believe me, writing it has made me frustrated as well sometimes hahaha-but ultimately, I am a die-hard Everlark fan and I love Gadge as well, and those are the pairings I intend to end this fic with. Katniss' relationship with both guys is such a complex one, and that dynamic was something I wanted to explore, especially by throwing a baby and Madge into the mix. It may not be the easiest of roads, but I can assure you, it'll be an interesting one! For those of you who are fans of other couples and are patiently waiting (Annie and Finnick, and some Haymitch and Effie), they will be introduced and explored as well in later chapters, because my overall goal is to touch upon how this war has affected all of the characters in the most honest way I can that stays true to the characters and story that Suzanne Collins did such a knockout job at creating and to the fic itself. Hope that clears up any confusion and eases any worries! **

**That being said, thanks again and again for all of the feedback I have been receiving. It's been so helpful and wonderful to hear what you have to say and to see that you are considering this fic one of your favorites as well as one to follow! I'll return the favor by getting the next chapter to you as soon as possible!**

**-ILoVeWicked**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hey everyone! So, I'm sorry that it has been a while. To say school was busy this week would be an understatement. But here's the next chapter for you! If the medical terminology is off, I'm very sorry! I did my best to be as accurate as I could with the technology and trimesters and whatnot, but i could very well be wrong with a lot of it. Unfortunately, this is all that I have already written up and edited, so updates will become slower and farther apart, unfortunately. But I will continue updating as best I can as long as you all let me know that you want me to continue and you are enjoying the story, so don't give up on it if I don't update for a while, please! Review and continue giving the story your favorites and follows, because it's such a motivator for me to get schoolwork done earlier so I can write for y'all! Hope you enjoy! I'll do my very best to get my next update to you!**

**A little preview for what is to come in chapter 11 to hold you all over till I get around to posting it: Haymitch recalls his last encounter with a certain escort and reflects on how she has affected him now that he is in 13 and he is not. Also, if you're a fan of Haymitch/Katniss banter (which I am), there's a ton of it coming your way! **

**Thanks so much, everyone!**

**-ILoVeWicked**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

**Chapter 10 **

**Primrose **

Sonograms and ultrasounds were nonexistent novelties back in District Twelve. Only merchant mothers-to-be who could afford trips to more lavish districts, or even the Capitol, traveled to receive their prenatal care.

The pregnant patients my mother tended to at home were typically those of the Seam. Sonograms and ultrasounds were not accessible, and therefore my mother had to rely on her own homemade remedies and procedures to come up with logical, and oftentimes too realistic, diagnoses for children that would likely be born ill, premature, or stillborn.

Like the medicines themselves, these diagnoses were often hard to stomach.

When my mother and I arrived in District Thirteen, we were shocked to discover that the underground civilization had managed to obtain the highest quality technology that resembled what the Capitol used in their hospitals. Mother and I sat, dumbfounded, as we were instructed on the usage of devices that would tell us more than medicine in the Seam could ever drudge up.

In the weeks that followed, I often crept by the maternity ward of the hospital to watch expectant couples see images of their child for the first time. I can hardly wait until I am old enough to perform an ultrasound and bring joy to parents the way Mother is able to. Here, in District Thirteen, babies repopulated. In District Twelve, babies had to fight just as hard for their lives as their parents did.

Days in which my mother performs ultrasounds result in her happiest evenings at home as well. Humming, petting Buttercup affectionately, and giddily recounting her day, Mother's ultrasound days are the days I look forward to most in Compartment E, because even in high-tech District Thirteen, not every day is cheery. Death, although much more easily avoided here, is something that can never be escaped entirely.

Naturally, I was thrilled when Mother gave me permission to sit in on Katniss' first appointment. Practically pulling her arm from its socket, I lead my sister down the maternity wing of the hospital, babbling excitedly about the various types of medicinal machinery that she would get to see used.

Katniss' eyes silently float from room to room, filled with mothers of all shapes, sizes, and stages of pregnancy. She was strangely eager to go to her scheduled appointment with our mother after returning from the forest that morning, but the change in her current countenance seems to indicate that she believes she has made a mistake. Her uneasiness causes me to slow my own pace and to caution my tone as I speak.

To make matters worse, we have the misfortune of wandering past a delivery room with a door that has been left wide open. A blotchy-faced, screaming woman slurs profanities and thrashes in her stirrups all while the midwife instructs her to continue pushing. My sister's eyes grow wide with horror as she points an accusing finger toward the scene before her.

"What is coming out of that woman?" Katniss spits at me, face drained of all color.

"Um, a baby?" I offer with a shrug. Katniss always made it a point to leave the house and go hunting whenever a pregnant patient came by-or any patient, for that matter. There is no way she could know that labor was a sight that cannot be unseen, a lesson I had learned the hard way when I had first naively volunteered to help my mother deliver children, and I sympathize with my traumatized older sister.

"I thought birth was supposed to be a miracle," she states, lips tightly drawn in disgust, though she never really averts her eyes from the gruesome display. I giggle softly and she glares immediately at me. I quickly swallow my laughter, remembering that I am not the one who will be in the sweaty woman's position in a few more months.

"It is a miracle," I insist. The comically skeptical look I receive from Katniss is expected, and I suppress my laughter this time around, opting to smile coyly at her. "Trust me, Katniss. I've seen a lot of women give birth. I know what I'm talking about. It's what comes _after_ all of…_that_…that is the miracle. Lots of women undergo difficult labors, it's true, but there's nothing quite like holding that baby in your arms."

Katniss smiles softly, her thoughts most likely drifting to herself in this scenario, when the wail of a newborn in the delivery room breaks us both from our dazes. The screaming woman is now sobbing tears of joy. In her arms she cradles a placenta-covered, healthy, writhing infant. I watch on with delight, grinning from ear to ear. No matter how many babies get passed on into the hands of their mothers, whether they are sickly and in desperate need of medical attention or plump and fortified by District Thirteen's medicine, it will always bring me an indescribable joy to see a mother hold her child.

Katniss, however, is unimpressed. She was never known as the apathetic Everdeen sister. "I'm sorry, it's still disgusting. Let's get this over with, Prim."

Now, it is my turn to be dragged down the hallway, my sister tearing me away from an otherwise emotional scene.

Our mother is waiting for us at the end of the hall. The expression she wears is unreadable, as it always is concerning issues that stray away from her familiar world of medicine and into her strange personal world. I know very little of Mother's past, but with one look into her distant, pale blue eyes, it is enough to know that my mother, like her daughters, is familiar with having to grow up too quickly.

No woman wishes motherhood on their seventeen-year-old, and I can tell Katniss' impending, permanent loss of innocence disheartens her in ways that she will never utter aloud.

I had my love of healing to bring me back to my mother when she began to reach out for us again. On the other hand, Katniss was entirely our father's daughter and our mother had difficulty making any connection with Katniss that spanned beyond the basic understanding that Katniss would bring us food every night.

My mother and I, I have observed, are very similar in our love for medicine and our use of it. Medicine is an outlet for our emotions and means for communication. By performing an ultrasound on Katniss, Mother is showing her support and understanding for her eldest daughter as best as she can. She may not understand the half of what Katniss is dealing with in terms of the internal battles she faces, but our mother knows, understands, and can handle a pregnancy.

Mother eagerly ushers us into an examination room, happily yapping away about gestation and all of the wonders of the second trimester of pregnancy. Katniss watches with wide eyes, unused to the perky demeanor in our mother due to never having truly seen our mother in her comfort zone. I connect the dots and realize that my mother believes that she has found a way to connect to Katniss, a method of communication that strays away from the cloud of death and destruction that seems to follow our family around and instead focuses on the ray of sunlight that is the birth of this baby.

"Now, you're just approaching twenty weeks, Katniss, meaning you're just about halfway there. The baby's reproductive organs have been formed and its grown to the point where it's going to want to move around, so don't be surprised if you feel any acrobatics going on in there. And your appetite is most likely going to come back, now that we're weaning you off of your prenatal medication, and—Katniss, are you even listening to a word I'm saying?"

Having been under the spell of watching my mother rattle off facts about what the technology here is able to tell us about the magic going on inside of my sister, I have failed to notice that Katniss' attention has been drawn to the corner of the room with rather detailed diagrams of the female reproductive system during my mother's detailed description.

Katniss drops a simulation infant baby doll that she had been examining in surprise of being called out for her lack of focus. Realizing the implications of her action, her eyes grow wide and her face flushes in embarrassment as she scrambles to pick the doll back up and set it gently on the table, only resulting in her knocking over several vials of medical supplies and figurines of the female anatomy in the process. Her face grows beet red in humiliation and I cup my hand over my mouth, half in shock and half to avoid bursting into laughter.

"Sorry," Katniss mutters. A small squeak escapes through my fingers and I clamp my hand tighter over my mouth to keep from any further noises escaping. I fear that Mother is going to want to throw both of us out of the room.

My mother, to both of our surprises, chuckles and rolls her eyes. She gestures toward the examination table and with an unwavering voice, speaks, "Alright, Young Lady, hop on up here. I want to show you something pretty amazing."

Katniss obeys. My mother transitions seamlessly from mother-mode to work-mode as she methodically lifts up Katniss' shirt and folds it gently, just above her bump. Under Katniss' dark, loose, District-administered clothing, her condition was barely noticeable. This perfectly shaped orb of skin before me, however, has made the situation all the more real. She is halfway there, and in twenty more weeks, she will hold her own replica of the doll on the desk. I smile dopily and grab Katniss' hand as Mother grabs a bottle of petroleum jelly from the side table and squirts it onto Katniss' belly, making my sister suck in a breath.

"Cold?" Mother asks, barely looking up from the fixture in front of her as she prepares the ultrasound. Katniss nods, craning her neck to watch my mother's every move while her free hand twitches every so often toward her stomach. The gesture is simple, but protective. I see in my sister's restrained attempts in understanding this newfangled technology that she does not fully trust it, and I give her hand a light squeeze.

Katniss peers up at me, eyes expectant and somewhat fearful, and I repeat the gesture with a sincere smile, letting her know everything is going to be just as mother says, amazing. Her body relaxes and she leans back against the examination table.

A few clicks and beeps get the machine revved up while my mother waves a wand through the jelly over my sister's swollen stomach, and suddenly the screen before us lights up. Katniss skyrockets back up again, curiosity taking over as she watches the screen slowly project an x-ray image. My mother laughs slightly as a steady thumping sound fills the room.

"Hear your heartbeat, honey?" Mother asks. Still clutching my hand, Katniss nods slowly. The thumping grows quicker in pace in a matter of moments. My mother takes in my sister's cowering form and smiles sweetly. "Relax, dear. Your heartbeat is going crazy from all of the nerves. This has been a routine procedure for hundreds of years." Katniss huffs and falls back against the bed. Her heartbeat does not slow, but it eventually steadies.

Then, we all hear it. A swishy, fluttering beat that effortlessly falls into a complementary cadence with Katniss' heartbeat. My sister's body, stiff as a board, has propelled back into a sitting position once again, face contorted in fear.

"What's _that_? Is something wrong?" she chokes. My mother and I exchange an all-knowing glance before we both openly laugh at my sister's unwarranted despair. Katniss folds her arms over her chest and glowers at us.

"Ha-ha, very funny. Katniss doesn't understand medicine," she mutters sardonically. Through my fits of giggles, I find her hand again and clasp it in both of mine.

"Katniss, that's your baby's heartbeat!" I inform her.

"And this," my mother adds, turning the screen in our direction, "is your baby."

I recognize the grainy outline of a fetus and take in the special features of my niece or nephew. I make out a head, a torso, and all four limbs. It may be biased of me to say so, but having seen many ultrasound images in my short history with working in District Thirteen, my sister's baby is already the most perfect baby I have ever seen.

Shrugging myself from my own fantasy, I gaze down at my sister and see that she is wrapped up in a world of her own. Her shaky fingers trace the outlines of the tiny body before her, mouth forming the shapes of words she wants to say, but cannot bring herself to mention aloud.

My mother, who has been looking on with tears in her eyes, I now realize, speaks for Katniss as she continues tracing the wand over the actual baby, for none of us wants to let the image go away. "Incredible, right?"

"Incredible," the awe-stricken Katniss repeats softly.

"It's the most beautiful little bean I have ever seen!" I gush, noting the adorable bean-shape of my future family member. Katniss giggles gaily and rubs her thumb lovingly over the face of her baby's image.

"Little Bean. I like it. Reminds me of my Little Duck," Katniss says with a far-away smile that sends my own heartbeat skyward.

We are silent for several minutes, in a world of pure, unharmed happiness. The sound of the two heartbeats working in tandem swirls around us, beating like drums in a symphony of joy. It truly is magical.

"Katniss, if you would like to know the gender of the baby, I can tell you now," my mother says after we have all soaked in the precious silence. My sister wipes her teary eyes and shakes her head.

"No…let's be surprised,"she replies meekly. I gulp back tears of my own, knowing that she believes that information is something to be disclosed if and when the child's father is the one holding her hand as they examine their child's ultrasound sometime in these next twenty weeks.

Eventually, our appointment time is up. My mother prints a picture of the ultrasound for Katniss, which she immediately takes, folds up and places in her pant pocket.

Mother secretly prints two extra copies of the ultrasound, and long after Katniss has gone to fulfill her daily duties as Mockingjay, the healer I owe so much to slips me the photo to me with a twinkle in her eye.

The photo sleeps with me under my pillow that night. I can tell my mother has placed her copy behind her wedding photo due to the slightly smudged fingerprints on the glass covering the photo that she cleans every day and the slightly folded corner of the wedding photo revealing a trace of a grainy bean behind it. I catch Katniss peering at her own copy, cradling it in her hands alongside her pearl, before retiring to bed as well.

The photo, and the baby inside of it, means the world to our broken family. It is preserved documentation that we were all happy at the same place and time, and all connected by the Little Bean that brings us all our own individual hope. In this snapshot of our lives, we were a family without struggle, without starvation, and without strife.

_Thank you, Little Bean, _I think happily, sending the message of love and appreciation to the bump resting across the room from me before drifting off to sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

**Chapter 11**

**Haymitch**

_Katniss nods her head along with my orders, her quick obedience out of character, and releases a bothered breath before hugging me close again. Her fingers etch frantic, grasping patterns into my back as she debates the thousands of things she could say. It all feels so formal, so final. _

"_Thank you," she whispers as she pulls away. Our gazes are gridlocked for a moment, caught in a staring contest that neither of us wants to lose. She is the first to surrender, eventually, and she retreats back to Peeta. Their fingers intertwine almost automatically before they slink off together into the shadows, both of them stealing what they believe to be one last glance at their mentor. _

_Each of them thinks that they will never see me again, that they will die in the Third Quarter Quell by trying to protect the other. I have other plans. _

_I just hope she remembers who the real enemy is. _

_Running a heavy hand down my tired face, I sigh heavily. I truly thought they would cancel the Games. Delay them, at least. It was nothing short of brilliant, playing the pregnancy card, on Peeta's behalf. For a moment, I think we _all _forgot who was in ultimate control. Snow has no problem killing the baby if it means he gets to kill Katniss. _

_I turn to retire to my bedroom for a useless night of tossing, turning, and throwing back drinks. My body feels as though it is made of lead as I trudge through the District compound, every last inch of the room containing some significance to this journey we've all found ourselves aimlessly wandering on. The chairs we have sat and strategized in, side tables that have been furiously flipped over, even the pristine floors we have paced upon resonate heavily within me._

_I am barely halfway to my door when I hear them: _

_Cries. Sad, strangulated, wounded cries come from the other side of Effie Trinket's door. _

_Trinket has always been a piece of work, that's for certain. Whether it's her perky demeanor, her flashy personality, her damn schedules, or her innate desire to make a spectacle out of anything and everything, she has managed to get under my skin since day one. _

_The previous escort was annoying purely because he was from the Capitol. But he was a trustworthy companion in that he did his job, only speaking to me when it was absolutely necessary. It usually never was necessary to call upon me, as our tributes were often hopeless cases coming from the mining district. In over ten years, I don't even think we ever bothered to learn each other's names. He retired and the Capitol brought me her. She, unlike my good friend What's-His-Face, was ten times more infuriating because she was from the Capitol _and _she tried. She tried _hard.

_Effie Trinket truly believed that, with each new year, the tributes of the District had a shot at winning the Games. The helpless boy and girl were often forced—on top of all the other shit they had to deal with—to uphold Effie's demands for manners, posture, and punctuality, in hopes that it would give them promise. _

_It never worked. _

_The worst of it all would be when Trinket would turn her tactics on me, forcing me to be the example for the children. I was quickly proven unteachable and she began to use me as the antithesis of her work, pointing to me and telling the children I was exactly what they didn't want to become, should they get the chance to become anything. _

_That didn't stop her from the occasional jab at my lack of tact and grace every now and again. Don't slurp your soup, Haymitch. Sit up straight, Haymitch. Smile, Haymitch. _

_My pure hatred for her evolved into accepting her for what she was: a Capitol citizen who knows nothing that strays too far from the little bubble in which she lives. My constant jeering toward her emerged in order to curb my resentment toward her, wigs and all. Her no-nonsense façade was no match for my flask and tongue, and I often got off on the flustered body language that was thinly layered beneath her reprimanding. _

_And that's the way it is. I joke. She scolds. I drink. She schedules. By the time the 74__th__ Annual Hunger Games rolled around, we had settled into a routine of just barely tolerating each other's' antics. We are two different human beings, from two completely different worlds, who are dealt a tricky hand of cards together each year with the incoming Tributes of District Twelve._

_The fact that she could send two children to their deaths every year and act so cavalier about it was an annual shock, even to someone who had been playing the game for a much longer time such as myself. Effie treats the kids as though their death is not a curse, but a privilege. She smiles at them, she courts them around, and she does a damn good job of reminding them that they are from the District least likely to win by constantly commenting on their 'manners'._

_She is always so sprightly, so childishly giddy, so happy, that I had come to assume that she loved the job and what it stood for. I fiddle with the golden bangle wrapped snuggly around my wrist and slowly realize that the Princess of Panem-my affectionate pet name for her-may be undergoing a change of heart._

_She is right when she refers to them as 'her' victors, in a way. Katniss and Peeta are all she has to tack onto her measly reputation as escort, and for the brief moment she was able to have them, she was a victor herself. Trinket basked in the spotlight of the Star-Crossed Lovers, reveled in the glory they brought to not only the District, but to her. Ten years of losing tributes as early as the bloodbath could do that to a Capitolite like her. _

_I personally hated referring to Katniss and Peeta as 'mine', but Trinket seemed to have no problem with the idea of fame by association. I detested the way she got off on their ruse just as much as any other blood-sucking leech of a Capitol citizen would. All it would take is one minute for that damn painted head of hers to come out of the clouds for her to realize that the love was mostly an act._

_And then, the Quell was announced. Some sort of gear-shift occurred in Effie Trinket since that fateful day. There was no mistaking the pain in her eyes as she stepped onto the podium before the District as she did every year before. She was an entirely different Effie without that phony smile plastered on her cosmetically-altered face as she read Katniss' name on that singular slip of paper, as she watched Peeta take my place. _

_She would never go into a Hunger Games, no. But having to lose any of us, I realize, will be what kills her. _

_Without thinking, I impulsively grasp the brass of the doorknob in my hand and roughly twist it, swinging her bedroom door open. _

_My jaw drops in shock at the display before me. _

_A woman sits hunched over in a frenzied pile on the floor, back leaning against the bed as her body is overcome by sobs. Stripped of her showy clothing, she wears a simple white, lace nightgown that shows off every curve that the pounds of satin and tulle in her usual get-ups aim to hide. Her hair falls in honey-colored ringlets around her shoulders, just brushing her chest. Tear tracks run from her crystal blue eyes, through the slight wrinkles around the corners of her mouth, the cracks of where a permanent smile has fragmented. Her delicate hands, uncovered by the trademark flashy pair of gloves that always conceal them, shake vigorously as she takes in the drunken intruder before her and desperately tries to make herself presentable._

_She is broken, but she is beautiful. _

"_I look awful," she mutters past pouting pink lips, which have turned downward in an atypical frown. _

"_You look human," I reply earnestly, quickly. "It's a good look for you, actually. You should wear it more often."_

_A bitter laugh escapes her gritted teeth—straightened and whitened to perfection—as she makes a feeble attempt to stand up. It's the most honest reaction my jokes have elicited from her, and it is deeply unsettling. Her legs give underneath her and she crumbles to the floor with another shocking cry. _

_Instinct takes over, and I am at her side. Moments later, her weeping form is cradled in my arms as I rock her back and forth. It doesn't matter that I hold in my hands Effie Trinket, the woman I swore I loathed up until this very moment. It doesn't matter that the remnants of her make-up end up on my collar, or that her flawlessly trimmed fingernails dig into my skin as she clutches handfuls of my thin shirt. Because under that automaton act of a demeanor, she is a human being. _

_Human beings are fragile. Human beings can break._

"_Calm down, Sweetheart." _

"_It's not fair!" she screams through her sobs. "We were supposed to be a team forever. They don't deserve this. None of you deserve this!" _

_My hand immediately clamps over her mouth. Dirty fingernails mar her porcelain skin as she struggles, kicking and screaming until her frail body succumbs to my demands. _

"_Shh, this room is bugged with all sorts of traps, Trinket. You don't want them to hear you," I insist. She wriggles her way out of my grasp and whirls around to face me, her mouth forming a tough line._

"_Yes, I do." Although this comes out as a whisper, it is hardened. It is firm. "They should hear me. Because what they are doing to you all is unfair. I should not be expected to idly stand there and send my only victors off to their deaths less than a year after they narrowly escaped it before. I should not be expected to send _anyone _off in such a way. Granted, that was all I knew how to do until—until they came along. But I got attached. I fell in love with those kids. Now they are going off to die and I am to blame for it."_

_She is a screeching puddle of goo again, and she crawls her way back into my arms, which automatically seem to know how to enclose her so that she fits perfectly against my heart. My fingers absentmindedly loop around strands of her golden locks as I run my hand as soothingly as I know how to through her hair. Comforting isn't exactly my forte._

"_Sweetheart, no one's going around here blaming you for something that is out of your control. You're doing your job…"_

_She grips me tighter against her, and more tears soak through the fabric of my shirt sleeve. "My job is essentially killing people, Haymitch. I am a monster." _

_She utters the last bit under her breath, meant to be exclusively for her ears, although I make no mistake when I hear it:_

"_Now, I know why you hate me so much."_

Hated_, I think, _hated you so much. _To be truthful, she was a monster in my eyes. The harmless kind of monster that is horrible at doing their job of effectively scaring people the way more evil monsters like Snow manage to, but a monster nonetheless. There is no denying that her job is a brutal one, made out to be glamorous and appealing by the Capitol but is villianous at its core. _

_I do not hold a monster in my hands, however. The true monsters are the ones that find pure joy in getting to be the lucky one to come in close proximity to a past Victor just by reaping them, in seeking power by bringing the strongest people to their end. The woman I hold can tell the difference between good and evil, and a true monster knows only the latter. _

_So what does that make her, then?_

"_Well," she mutters, her Capitol-accent faltering as it cracks under the pressure of her sobs. "Say something." _

_I suddenly have the overwhelming urge to tell her everything—all of the plotting, scheming, and manipulating that I have been doing behind the scenes—everything. I want to tell her that in just a few short days, Plutarch Heavensbee will arrive for me in a hovercraft, which we will use to rescue the remaining tributes from the arena and bring them to District Thirteen. I want to tell her that there is a thirteenth district, that there is a rebellion underway, that Katniss will be our Mockingjay. I want to tell her to come with me, to abandon her charade of a lifestyle and fight against everything she has ever known. _

_In a perfect world, I could tell her all of it and she would easily agree with me. I peer over her head and into the eyes of my reflection in a mirror, which is certainly laced with several surveillance cameras. The mirror ornately rests at the center of a vanity, which is decorated with all of her ridiculous knickknacks. Powders of varying colors, drastically styled wigs, and mounds of glitter force me to realize that all of my wanting is merely hopeful wishing. Asking Effie Trinket to rebel against the Capitol is dangerous, a risk that I cannot afford to take at this stage in my plans, especially if she should say no. _

She will comply with the Capitol, anyway_, I remind myself. _Her allegiance has always been with the Capitol_. _

_After much deliberation, I decide that holding her any longer only puts us under more scrutiny from whoever watches from the other side of the mirror. I wordlessly stand up, lifting her bridal style, and place her gingerly on the bed. Blue orbs stare up at me in harried confusion, searching desperately for the reprieve that is not mine to give her. I can feel the heat of her gaze and downcast my eyes. _

_When I think it is safe to look up, I am mistaken. I am transported into those eyes, and she grips on, her heavy breathing ceasing altogether. For a moment, I sense that she knows that I am up to no good. _

_I turn quickly to go, for fear that another moment will cause me to grab her and stow her away with me against her will. It's either that or kiss her. All of it tampers with the clear plan I have lain out for myself, and I cannot afford to make any mistakes, not when kids' lives are on the line._

_When I reach for the doorknob once more in my haste to escape, I find myself coming to an involuntary pause. I spin around, and I take in the true beauty that lies beneath the beast, just one more time. Who knows when I'll ever see her like this again? I want to remember it all, so that I may resist the urge to whack her fuchsia wig off of her head next time she comments on my table etiquette. _

"_I don't hate you, Trinket," I say finally. I chuckle quickly escapes my cracked lips as another thought rushes through my head, a thought laced with proper fork placement, posture alignment, and personality modifications. _

"_I don't think I've ever hated you." _

"_N—neither have I," she replies meekly._

_And with that, I leave. _

_Leaning against the door, I sigh heavily as those heart wrenching cries start up again from the other side of the threshold. I cannot go back in there, no matter how badly I want to. _

_Yes, it's better that she knows nothing. It's safer that she knows nothing._

* * *

I do not know the fate of Effie Trinket.

Some speculate that she was executed immediately, like the prep teams of the tributes. No, others argued, the escort of the Mockinjay would have been killed live on television in order to scare us all. She must be imprisoned by the Capitol, like Peeta. Perhaps she escaped, a handful mused, changed her identity and ran away. There's no way a runaway Capitolite could survive the wilderness, several concluded. If the Capitol doesn't have her, nature certainly must have had its way with her.

It killed me to think of any of it. The scenario could have very easily worked out that Effie Trinket would have been beside me today, at this very moment, as I instructed Katniss' film squad on our plan of attack once arriving in Eight. She could have been here, reminding everyone to be on their "best behavior" in that tinny little voice that managed to break into the cranium of anyone who cared to listen to her drone on long enough.

But she isn't here. Because I never told her. Because I never saved her when I had the chance to.

Unspeakable guilt gnaws at me like a parasite. My palms sweat, yet constantly remain numb to the touch. My nerves are electrified, senses heightened. No matter how many drinks I chug to wash it away, there is a sour taste that constantly lingers in the back of my throat.

I suppose spending all of my time devoted to the rebellion and the kids' roles in it caused me to forget that she was at just as much of a risk as any of us purely by her association. Effie Trinket was like a tribute who had slipped under my radar, who I had failed to take into consideration despite my many calculations. Regardless of whether she was alive or dead, free or imprisoned, her blood was on my hands. Her cross was mine to bear. I replay the events of our final days together on the video reel of my mind, searching aimlessly for any stolen, fleeting moments in which I could have pulled her aside and told her everything of the rebellion in secret, so that even if she refused to join the rebels, she would be aware that she was in danger and needed to save herself.

My mind can only pinpoint that particular evening—her broken countenance, her devastating sobs, her unmasked beauty as I held her and never wanted to let her go. Pride, fear, _something_ made me let her go, however, and I will never forgive myself for any of it until I have some semblance of closure.

The guilt has, needless to say, been a distraction to my duties as the mentor of the Mockingjay. When I am not busy searching for shreds of information that I can piece together to figure out where Effie is, I am drinking. Alcohol blurs the realities, tampers with the memories, and curbs the drilling in my gut. My consumption rate has gone up drastically since arriving in Thirteen, and given my background, people just assume Drunken Old Haymitch is up to his old antics.

They do not see my rotting core, withering away until there is nothing left of the man who has let so many down and needs to constantly escape from the world so that he may not hurt another person. With each day that goes by without me figuring out the riddle of Trinket's whereabouts, the man withers away a bit more.

The only one who seems to note my change is Katniss, but of course, she's a little busy with her own preoccupations and vendetta against me to worry about the man who sacrificed Peeta for the sake of the war. She watches me with tedious eyes as I stumble back and forth across the room in a mess of a presentation for our propaganda mission in District Eight that I have failed to prepare adequately. Effie would have been put to shame if she could see me spouting bullshit at the bewildered crew.

"Coin tells me that there is fighting in District Eight. Now, don't get your whistles wet, everyone, it's nothing serious, but enough to make for some good television for our little starlet. We're going for some sort of live action reel, to capture the Princess at her very best—which is obviously _not _what went on in that room the other day. _That _kind of display is how a revolution dies."

Katniss makes no attempt at hiding her flippant eye roll and subsequent grimace at my comments. Her fury is my fuel—along with the booze—to continue speaking. We are a pair of bulls, obstinately butting heads and refusing to stand down.

"The district has spoken with Commander Paylor of District Eight, who will escort us around the hospital at Eight so we can get some shots of Katniss being a humanitarian to the patients. Who knows? Maybe she's a goddess and none of us knew it and her touch has the power to heal. Whatever, it'll make good press. Maybe even light a fire under her ass and show her that she isn't so bad off…"

Her eyes, slate-colored daggers, are on me instantaneously. Her posture is suddenly better than ever as she stands attentively. "What did you say?" she asks, her voice low and predatory.

"You heard me," I reply with a sly smile. "You're better off than many of those sick soldiers and citizens, and you know it." She wants so badly to lunge at me and attempt to claw the skin from my face again, I can tell.

She refrains from attacking and opts to bite down the inside of her cheek. I practically taste the blood she has drawn as she spits, "You're implying that I'm being ungrateful."

"Well, I mean…you are being ungrateful."

She gestures emphatically toward her swelling belly, which, when her arms are uncrossed, is quite large and very in charge. She speaks in haphazard patterns, speeding up until the thoughts in her mind can no longer be read as cognizant.

"Haymitch, perhaps you haven't noticed, but I am having a baby. I am pregnant. It's not a hoax, it's real. So real that thinking about it makes me physically anxious…but it's all I can think about. So, I'm sorry if I haven't been giving it my best shot with these propos, but my mind is in another place. A place that constantly reminds me that one slip up on or off camera could cost us this war. No amount of sick patients or fancy editing can change the fact that I am pregnant and scared as hell. I am not being ungrateful. This new life I have been chosen to lead is just extremely difficult, and—"

"I did save you, Sweetheart. You and the bastard child. Remember that."

"At what cost?" she nearly screams. Cressida, Messalla, Castor, and the Avox boy all jump at the outburst. Gale shifts uncomfortably. Finnick's gaze plummets south. Plutarch barely flinches, used to our antics at this point. "At the cost of Peeta's life? Johanna's? Annie's? Effie's? Just so you could have your rebellion?"

Nobody anticipates the chord she strikes with me by throwing Effie into the mix. I am suddenly snarling, face inches from her face, breath hot and reeking, hand frozen and just inches away from making contact with the skin on _her _face.

Time hangs like a wet cloth over each of us, suffocating the life and air out of the room.

My palms itch, my heart races, my stomach lurches, yet my face remains still as stone. Katniss' stare is just as piercing as it was moments before, but in the way her eyes have widened and her mouth has become ajar I read that I terrify her. I terrify myself.

Quickly, and suddenly aware of my surroundings and senses, I do my best to act nonchalant as I pull back,pat down the wrinkles that have formed in my shirt, and clear my throat. Katniss exhales.

"As I was saying, had you let me finish…that after you visit with the patients in the hospital we want to get some staged shots of you in combat after we rile you up a bit." I turn to the rest of our audience. "As you can see, a little passion works wonders on us Victors."

Everyone is still shell-shocked and silent until Finnick laughs heartily and nods along, the joke ironically all too true. Messalla, Cressida's assistant, lets out an involuntary chuckle as well, and I notice that the camera in his hand is blinking red. He has recorded the entire damn thing.

"Turn that camera off, Boy!" I chide him. "And make a new tape. The wrong person gets their hands on that and Snow will be sending over baby shower gifts by sunrise."

Messalla fumbles, sputtering incoherent nonsense in his embarrassment at being caught. Cressida places a ginger hand on his shoulder before speaking on his behalf.

"Sorry, that was my fault. I told him he needed to practice before we go out on the field."

"Don't worry about it, just get rid of it," I reply flippantly. Cressida complies and removes the tape from the camera for Messalla, who is still shaking like a leaf. I chuckle softly as I recall how weighted all three minutes of footage on that tape is. "Hey, at least it proves how truly amazing these propos can be."

Gale crinkles his nose skeptically at the sudden compliment I have directed at Katniss, who now, watching the tape like a hawk, is covering her stomach back up with her sleeves in insecurity. "Huh?"

"Okay," I breathe, embracing my new sense of clarity. "Think about it. All of you. When did you first believe in Katniss Everdeen? And I mean really, truly believe? When did she make you feel something so strong that you felt personally connected to her?"

"When she volunteered for Primrose," Castor quips, almost immediately. "It was so brave of her, so moving."

"Very good," I say with a smile and a thumbs up. Gold star for Castor.

"The berries. From the first Games," Cressida adds. She mulls over her answer with a reflective pause before continuing with a lighthearted giggle. "Oh, how I wishedto be that much in love!"

"Watching you fight in that arena," Finnick offers. "It was like I was already watching you at war. You've always been a soldier, Katniss."

"Watching you hunt," is all Gale has to offer.

"Shooting an arrow into the sky was pretty gutsy as well. It's when I _knew _I had selected just the right Mockingjay," Plutarch states with a wink. Katniss stares on blankly. Whether or not she is absorbing any of this is beyond me, but I want to keep it going nonetheless.

With intricate hand gesticulations, the Avox named Pollux contributes his own two cents by miming out how Katniss gave Rue a proper burial during the Games. He mimes plucking flowers and delicately places the imaginary props on the ground.

From his place on the ground, kneeling in a sort of vigil to the fallen young tribute,Pollux looks Katniss directly in the eye as he raises three fingers to his lips and lifts them skyward. He is past trying to impress Katniss, beyond trying to impress me. He wants her to truly believe in how powerful she is. Judging by the glimmer in her misty eyes, she seems to understand his message and she silently reciprocates his gesture.

"Thank you, everyone," I say finally, after everyone has taken the time to digest Pollux's moving statement. The words come easier, freer, and more willingly than ever before, perhaps because I am finally able to identify with how poignant all of those moments were to me as well. As much of a brat as she was at times, Katniss Everdeen was exceptional. And it doesn't hurt to remind exceptional people of how extraordinary they are every once in a while, especially when they are in desperate need of morale.

"Do you sense a pattern here? There is a common denominator in all of this. Volunteering, the berries, the arrow, the argument she just had with me, everything, is all connected by the fact that they were all actions that came straight form Katniss. No pretenses, no scripts, just pure, unadulterated Katniss Everdeen. _This _is the Katniss we need to capture in these propos everyone, not the made up warrior we tried to pass her off as the other day. Putting her in a place where we can capture her in her prime is what is going to be the strategy that helps us win over the nation, by making Panem believe in her the way _we _believe in her. Think about that in Eight tomorrow when you're filming, all of you. You're free to go, see you tomorrow."

Messalla, not quite reverted back to his original pallor after being called out earlier, is first to shuffle out of the room, followed by Cressida and Castor. Pollux silently lingers behind Finnick, Gale, and Plutarch, eyes transfixed on a far off destination as he silently shuts the door behind him.

It's as if he knows that the Mockingjay and I have unfinished business.

"Nice speech," Katniss says finally. "Maybe _you _should be the one writing my scripts."

"You've always been better at improvisation, Sweetheart."

She smiles faintly at the comment. "Really, um, thank you. I mean it. I'm grateful for what you did for me, for the baby, and for everyone you managed to save…as much as it hurts me that Peeta wasn't one of them."

"Katniss, know that if he weren't so far away from you, he would have been first on the list—"

"—Of people to save after _me_? Reassuring."

"You know why you had to be first."

"Well, _he _was first on my list, okay? It was our job, _my _job, to protect him and bring him home. And now he's—he's—I knew I never should have left him alone at the tree. If we were together, then maybe he would be here. I should have at least gone to look for him when I first knew something was wrong…"

That's when it clicks. The recounting of her final moments with the boy which lacks detail and is illuminated with desperation. The bitten, bloodied finger beds and worn down nails conjured up by nervous habit. The sunken eyes, ringed and nearly blackened from many sleepless nights. The edgier than usual—even for a pregnant woman—attitude.

She feels just as guilty I do. Peeta is her Effie.

It baffles me how Katniss and I continue to return to our roots of similarity. Even when we seem to be miles away and in our own isolated worlds, we are still connected by some unspoken force of nature that serves as a constant reminder that although we may get on each other's last nerve, and although we may let each other down, we are oftentimes all each other has.

"Katniss," I speak up, cutting her off from the third loop around of her babbling about the lightening tree. "I know you feel guilty for not being able to save him. I know you blame yourself more than anyone for what's happened to him, but trying to find the flaw in your actions is pointless."

Although these words are directed at Katniss, I deflect the words' message unto myself as well. I need to hear this just as much as she does. Instructing Katniss becomes cathartic for myself, now that I understand just how parallel our situations are.

"The only way you can change any of it is by going back in time, and as much as I wish we could conjure up a time machine, neither of us can make that happen. We're looking for him. For all of them. For now, we do the best that we can to keep this war going so that we can bring them home, just like we originally planned do. And in the meantime, we stop blaming ourselves for things that are and have always been out of our control, got it?"

Katniss nods mechanically. Her hand glides over her stomach, as if sending the message to Peeta's child as well, and she allows a single tear to slide down her cheek as her face falters.

"I need him, Haymitch."

Just like they had been for Effie, my arms are suddenly open for Katniss to seek shelter in my embrace. We stay locked in this position for what feels like ages, clinging onto each other as we ride the choppy waters of our guilt together.

"This baby's gonna get its Daddy back, you hear me? I'm not gonna rest until he's here with you. But you have to trust me when it comes to the Mockingjay stuff, alright? I know it's tough, trusting me after what I did to you, after I broke my promise to you, but believe me, it's the quickest way to work on getting him back."

She tenses, breath hitching and labored, and I sense her apprehension.

"Well," I say, echoing the beautiful woman with honey hair that I once held close to my heart. "Say something."

"I trust you," she whispers, nestling her face farther into my shoulder. A breath pf relief whizzes past my lips.

Katniss made it no secret that I had lost her trust since we had arrived in Thirteen. Most days, she refused to even look me in the eye. Talk was strained, silences loaded. Something that had transpired in this command room today, however, had earned her trust back, and as my hand makes familiar comforting circles along her scalp, I make a mental note to never jeopardize that trust of hers again.

"Thank you, Kiddo."

This time, I don't dare make the mistake of letting her go too soon, for fear that I may lose Katniss the way I lost Effie Trinket.

* * *

**A/N: Hey everyone! Sorry it's been awhile, but I managed to write this chapter up whenever I had free time and wanted to get it to y'all as soon as possible! There are likely some editing mistakes (it's almost 3 AM so I wouldn't be shocked) and I know some of the plot points borrowed from the novel may not match up exactly with _Mockingjay, _but my main objective is to stick to the plot points and not follow the book word for word, because that keeps it interesting for everyone! Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'll do my best to get the next one to you as soon as I can...school is only getting crazier and crazier as the year comes to a close so it may take a bit. You guys have been so patient and supportive and I really appreciate your waiting. In the meantime, review review review! I LOVED hearing all you had to say about the last chapter and would love to hear your thoughts on this! Thanks so much and till next time!**

**-ILoVeWicked **


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

**Chapter 12**

**Katniss **

I can sense that Commander Paylor, District Eight's rebel leader, distrusts me from the very moment she lays eyes on me. Our ragtag team—made up of me, Gale, Haymitch, and my film crew—have barely stepped off of the hovercraft before she is standing before us, one eyebrow cocked in serious thought. She is young for a commander, no more than thirty years old. Something in her stern features and confident stature, however, indicates to me that her rank is not to be questioned.

With swift, staccato movements, Paylor greets me by shaking my hand firmly with one of her own hands. Her eyes, darker than the rich chocolate of her skin, deftly manage to never remove themselves from me as she speaks to Haymitch about the game plan of the visit, examining me from every direction. I feel as if she thinks of me as a cleverly disguised bomb that has been placed in her hands and will self-detonate at any second. Under the embarrassment of her scrutiny I shift my gaze over to Haymitch, who gives me a swift nod indicating his approval of Paylor.

_Remember what Haymitch said_, I remind myself. _You have to trust him_.

As much as I want to obey his orders, a part of me will always remain skeptical of these mysterious people of the revolution. Everyone is guilty until proven innocent in my book.

In Paylor's other hand, she holds a massive shield. Without so much as another word of greeting, Paylor abruptly shifts the shield into my own grasp, and she then positions it to hide all traces of my torso and abdomen.

"The patients can't know that you didn't lose the baby," Paylor informs me, gesturing toward the large warehouse that is serving as a makeshift hospital behind her. "We don't want to risk exposing your secret."

"Right," I reply curtly, irked by her informality. "I'm Katniss, by the way. It's nice to meet you."

"Katniss…" Haymitch says with a warning tone that I have learned to disregard. My eyes remain glued to Paylor, standing firmly to my ground. If this woman thinks she is going to get away with patronizing me for my pregnancy, she has another thing coming.

Paylor flashes a wide, toothy grin that throws me for a curveball. "You've got spunk. I'm Commander Paylor. Let's get you all into the hospital and film these propos, shall we?"

As we follow Paylor toward the hospital while she debriefs us on the assault from last evening that has left nearly thousands dead and injured in District Eight, I allow my mind to wander as I capture a glimpse of the textile District. Piles of rubble and deserted factories outline the roads, still smoking from the attack. The desolate surroundings send a shiver down my spine, reminding me of my own obliterated District. Wind whistles through broken window panes in one of the factories and I pick up my pace to escape the ghosts of the once inhabited District street.

Coin told Haymitch there was mild "fighting" in the district. If merciless bombings fall under the category of "fighting", than I suppose I should reevaluate my definition of the term.

Mangled bodies still lay strewn about the cobblestone pavements. Civilians who were unable to find shelter in time.

I peer down into the empty green eyes of a bloodied, burned young woman who appears to be about my age. She is no more than a few hours dead, fallen too soon at the hands of the Capitol like so many children her age must face as they go into the Hunger Games. She would never have to be reaped, no, but she didn't deserve this fate either, a fate that was by no means better than dying at the hands of another child. No child deserves to lose their life, their innocence, this way.

Sun's rays spill like nectar from the clouds, shrouding the young girl in light. Something on the girl's person glints in the sunlight. I slowly get down on my knees beside her, careful not to disturb her in her eternal slumber, and dust off a Mockingjay pin that has been fastened to her bloody lapel. I gasp, body instinctively curling away from the girl in horror.

I do not know this girl. She had a name, a story, a family, and I would never come to know those things about her. But she knew everything about me. She died believing in me.

My body wracked with anger—how could she so naively trust me, believe in me, risk her life for me?—I begin clawing furiously at the dirt underneath her. She needs a burial. She needs to be packed under miles of dirt that distance her from this world and the Mockingjay who sent her to her grave.

"Katniss!" Gale calls as he trots toward me. His combat boots make heavy _thuds_ that rattle the ground beneath me, and I worry they will jostle the girl. Dirt caked under my fingernails, I pause from my diligent work to notice that I have fallen far behind the group. Paylor and Haymitch mirror each other in impatience as the camera crew sets up in front of the hospital, which feels like a mile away from where I kneel in vigil.

"Katniss," Gale breathes, standing at my side, "we've got to go in there". I blink into the sunlight, into his frown, and sigh as I gesture helplessly at the girl at my side. The hole I have dug beside her is pitiful, and it barely makes a dent in the ground. It reminds me of how minimal of an effect I feel like I truly have when it comes to this revolution.

"She's dead, Gale," I mutter, growing frantic. "All of these people are dead. All of the people in there are dead and dying. I can't—I can't watch them _die_. I can't watch any more people _die_."

Gale, for once, is silent. I feel the warmth of his broad shoulders radiating in the heat as he lowers himself down to my level, to kneel beside me. He squints as he focuses in on the girl—her stringy auburn hair, her billions of freckles, her pasty skin. His eyes reflect the twinkling of the pin as it continues to mock me with its radiance amidst the dull tragedy of what lies around it.

Suddenly, Gale's calloused palm is resting over her delicate eyelids, lowering them over the glassy green orbs of her eyes so that her slumber may be restful.

"You know why you have to go in there, right?" Gale finally speaks after an appropriate time to honor the newly fallen tribute has passed. The clouds divert from the sun once more, and the Mockingjay pin glistens again, as if the bird is winking at me, egging me on in ways that make me want to both throw the pin into a river and hug it close to my heart.

"Yes," I whisper.

Wordlessly, I cling to Gale as I make my way over to the hospital, refusing to look down, so that I may no longer be tortured by the frozen faces of those who perished believing in the Mockingjay.

It is only when I have entered the hospital that I realize I have been holding my breath. Shield pressed against my belly, I follow Paylor as she leads me down a single aisle. The warehouse is crowded with cots filled with the sick, dead, and dying on either side of me. I feel the blinking of Messalla's camera on the back of my neck like a laser, boring through my skull and simmering my brain until it is no more than a crisp, like the bodies of those who lie in the cots.

Hands reach out to me, graze my arms in a hyperactive frenzy. A cacophony of voices—shrill, loud, soft, pained, sobbing, hoarse, angry, thrilled—calls my name, sends it echoing down the warehouse until the overwhelming sound of my name's two syllables no longer sound like they belong to me.

As I go to them, hold their bloody hands and press my palm against their feverish foreheads, they wash away my apprehensions with their unwavering support and adoration to be in the very presence of the Mockingjay. I am their savior, some call out. I am their medicine, their healer, their salvation.

It is then, as I squeeze the palm of a small boy who clings to his incoherent mother, that I realize the leverage I have is greater than what I believe it to be. To a spectator, I am invincible. These people find no faults in me, despite the list I have made for myself. Just like the girl on the street, the patients of the hospital have chosen to instill their faith in me, in the rebellion. Many of them would not live to see justice be served, to see the terror that will lead up to that fateful day.

I decide that I will bring them hope in light of their catastrophe. I owe them that much for believing in me when I barely believe in myself. I whisper to them my sincerest wishes for their health, and as I lean into their ears to add that their bravery has been noted, a personal sense of pride washes over me. These are my secrets to them, my moments alone with the people. Although the camera records my exchanges, and Paylor watches me with wary looks, I am able to provide for myself and the people of Panem a moment of true intimacy, a moment out of the limelight, when I whisper my gratitude to _them _into their ears.

A older woman who floods my memory with images of Greasy Sae and Mags with her kind eyes and soft speech is the first to ask about me, and she catches me off guard.

"How are _you _holding up, Dear?" she asks sweetly, despite her intense mutilation. She has lost a leg, and her wrinkled face is covered with deep cuts that run like bloody rivers down to the hem of her thin hospital gown. Blood seeps through her bandages and soaks her cot, but she concentrates her gaze on me as if she were casually conversing with me on the streets. My stomach lurches at the sight of so much blood as I desperately wish Prim or my mother were here to make it all go away in a way my squeamish body would never be able to do.

"I—I'm fine," I lie. I am far from fine, especially as I seem to be the only one who notices that there is no longer a sliver of white left on the gauze around her head. I want to slap the camera out of Messalla's hands, to rip the critical countenance off of Commander Paylor, to slap my former mentor senseless, to make any of them feel the pain that this woman is enduring right before their unsympathetic eyes. She presses her shaking, weak hand against my heart and sighs softly to herself.

"No, no you're not. I've lost a child before, Darling. It was many, many years ago, but the pain is as fresh as the wounds I have now. How _are _you?"

I clutch the back of the shield firmly and swallow the lump in my throat. My eyes flicker to meet the eyes of Paylor, who already seems to know what I want to ask permission to do as she swiftly shakes her head. I want to protest that this woman deserves to know that I did not lose the baby, that she deserves to have some ounce of hurting taken away from her in her final moments. It is clear that Paylor is not budging however, and I return to the old woman, who patiently awaits her answer.

My other hand travels to my concealed weapon behind the shield. Having to lie about the existence of this child on so many occasions has been nothing short of taxing, but I do not know this woman's agony, I cannot relate to her loss in the way she thinks I have.

I think yet again of the father of my child, the one who I _have _lost in this web of baby-related lies. Peeta would have known what to tell this woman, would have known the right lie to keep our child under wraps all while sending this woman to her death without the plaguing feeling of her body's failure to keep her child alive being the last thought that runs through her mind. But he is not here as a result of my failure to keep him alive. I finally break, but I force a phony smile onto my face because I know the camera still watches us.

"I'm a mess," I admit to her softly, because it is the truth. My utterance is so soft that the obnoxious microphone on Messalla's camera will never be able to pick up the admission. The woman's eyes, tired and losing their luster quickly, soak in my quiet despair as she processes how much I am hurting. In just a few moments, her hand is back on my heart as she smiles sadly.

"Then you must find something to hold on to," she replies, just as softly, as if she has caught onto my game of manipulating the propos to our advantage. I return her melancholy grin with one of my own as my hand traces soothing circles over my child.

"I will," I promise her. I then whisper thanks into her ear as she closes her eyes, a peaceful relaxation settling over her facial features. When I draw back from her, her eyes remain closed, never to open again.

"I misjudged you," Paylor speaks up as soon as my lip begins to quiver, just before I can allow myself to react to the passing of the woman. "You're more than just a poster child. There's something about you that sets you apart from everyone else. "

"Fire? I am the Girl on Fire, afterall," I conjecture, irony dripping from my voice like the blood from the old woman's wound as I think of my ridiculous nickname once more. Paylor shakes her head vigorously. She pauses in thought for a moment, mouthing the beginnings of phrases until she has handcrafted the perfect response.

"No, it's not that. It's…fight. You're filled to the brim with this genuine, unadulterated fight. You don't take orders from anyone, you bend the rules, sometimes, you even blatantly disregard the system…you're a fighter, Everdeen. The world could use more of you."

She grins again, a brilliant smile that sends me reeling along with the string of compliments. "Maybe that's why the world looks to you," she adds. I freeze.

I think of everyone who has looked to me for hope and has only been met with the dire consequences of my actions: Peeta, Prim, Gale, the red-headed girl outside on the street, the old woman lying before me—the list goes on.

"I don't want people looking to me," I reply tersely.

Paylor chuckles. Its sound carries like the fluttering of a bird's wings, light and airy, but it is weighted with a bitter comprehension that a commander of her stature, of her experience, must always bear.

"I don't think you have much of a choice," she responds, nodding toward my hand, which continues to press the old woman's hand against my heart. I drop the hand, and her arm drops against the cot with a sickening thud.

Before I have time to retort Paylor, Haymitch bustles down the center aisle of the hospital.

"I just got a call in from Boggs, Coin's commander, back in Thirteen. The Capitol is sending more hovercrafts for a second attack. They're minutes away," he shouts as he pushes past the delirious hands that sought comfort from me.

The cluster that has gathered around the old woman's bed suddenly scatters like the schools of fish I used to torment by tossing pebbles into the lake during my early trips to the forest with my father. Gale sprints ahead, whirring past me to stand at whatever imaginary front lines his mind has conjured up. Cressida, Messalla, Castor, and Pollux flock behind me, the camera in Messalla's hands continuing to blink as it records. Their excitement to be filming this moment, no matter how life threatening it may be, practically bubbles over and spills at my feet.

Paylor has sprung into action and is at my side, ushering me out of the hospital. She speaks quickly, authoritatively, as if we are her soldiers. "We've got to get all of you to safety. They can't know you're here. There's another warehouse just a few blocks from here, if we can get you there in time—"

But we don't get there in time. The second wave of bombs attacks the highly rebellious district once again, and one of them lands directly on the hospital, destroying the warehouse and instantly killing all of its inhabitants. Cressida shrieks as she points at what remains of the warehouse, which is now engulfed in the Capitol's fiery clutches. I swallow hard. The attack on the hospital was deliberate.

I feel like a coward for letting myself run away, for not protecting them.

Despite distancing ourselves from the hospital, the impact of the bombs has knocked me and my fellow revolutionaries to our hands and knees. I shoot up, hands frantically searching my stomach for any injuries. I breathe out a sigh of relief when I note that the bulk of my wounds are cuts and bruises and that my child is fine. Gale is at my side immediately, my shield in gripped so tightly in his hands that his knuckles are white as snow.

"Guess you'll need this now," he states, exasperated, as he shoves the shield in my direction. Flames and plumes of smoke swirl around us, debris flies from every direction, and my team looks entirely out of place. Cressida, Messalla, Castor, and Pollux are huddled together against the brick wall of the far off warehouse Paylor has escorted us to. Haymitch wheezes and vomits into a waste bin. Gale's eyes are wild, almost feral, as he takes in the scene before him with such childish glee that an outsider would think he had just discovered buried treasure out of this mess.

Paylor works like a well-oiled machine, gathering bits and pieces of destroyed rooftops and constructing a barricade out of the rubble. She wordlessly gathers the lot of us without a moment of faltering in her determined face and corrals us behind the barricade.

"The bombers are heading toward another warehouse where we have stored many survivors from the first attack. I need to get over there and help ward them off. Stay here. You're safe and guarded here. From their angle, you're a pile of rubbish. Good luck," she instructs us quickly, urgently, before dashing off in the direction of the other warehouse.

From underneath the metal of the makeshift barricade, I am able to look up into the sky, a dusty red mixture of rust-colored sunset and man-made flames. The hovercrafts glide through the smoke like treacherous insects, stingers ready to pinch the life out of those poor, innocent souls trapped inside the caverns of the warehouse. My mind wanders back to the hospital, which has undoubtedly suffered drastically form the attack. The chances of there being any survivors are slim, and anyone who may have had the chance of making out alive has been eliminated.

My fists clench. By killing the already injured and dying, the Capitol is merely showing off to the revolutionaries that they can be heartless, cruel, and kill with no genuine cause other than to win.

I won't let them beat us, I decide.

In one swift motion, I have grabbed the shield and crawled out of the barricade. I ignore the screams of Haymitch and quicken my pace to catch up to Paylor. She is already perched at the top of the warehouse, shooting with a large rifle into the deadly sky.

Adrenaline sends me climbing the ladder to the roof of the warehouse two prongs at a time. Sweat collects in my palms as I approach the scene of the attack, and I lose grip on the ladder. My hand is caught, however, by the familiar warm, calloused palm of my hunting partner. How long he has been following me, I am unsure, but the glint of exhilarartion in his eye indicates that it did not take him much effort to decide to join me.

"Keep it moving, Katnip. Paylor's gun can't do all the work," he insists, and I keep moving.

Paylor is taken aback upon spotting Gale and I, weapons ready and in position, at her side along the other revolutionaries from District Eight.

"What the hell are you doing, Everdeen?" Paylor spits out in between gunshots. The second shot hits the wing of a hovercraft and sends a large hunk of it spiraling to the ground. I follow suit, ripping a bow from my sheath and stringing it along my arrow.

There is a strange comfort that I pinpoint in the familiarity of my actions. My eyes narrow as they begin locking in on my target, the weakened wing, and my fingers glide gently along the sleek metal of my bow. With a single breath, I release the arrow and hit my target square on, sending the rest of the wing into smithereens.

"Helping you," I reply in a tone that is shockingly nonchalant as I release another bow into an unharmed hovercraft's center.

"_You_ of all people should be careful, Everdeen," Paylor hollers over the noise. Another bomb falls. With a sickening whistle and thundering crash, it sends more of District Eight up in flames and sends me stumbling into Paylor's arms.

Having been sent off-kilter too many times, my body is begging for mercy. My head is spinning, and I can barely see straight. My lungs scream for clean air, suffocating under the thick cloud of smoke I have inhaled. My stomach is a swirling, nauseous mess. Paylor seems to notice my symptoms as she eyes me with concern. Another bomb goes off, and in the distance, I hear screams. Tortured, strangled screams that remind me that I am not the worst off here.

"I'm a _fighter_, remember?" I remind Paylor as I shrug her off, dust off my jacket, and gather my shield and bow. Paylor's face contorts she wastes precious time contemplating whether or not to send me back to the barricade. She bites her tongue, however, and bends to pick up an arrow that has fallen from my sheath.

"Fine. You're lucky we need all the help we can get," she mutters before turning her attention back to the other soldiers stationed on the roof. "Keep firing!"

The damage we are inflicting upon the hovercrafts barely makes a dent in the crusade, but it is at least serving as enough of a distraction to cause less bombs to fall. Gale fires his weapon into the air with a grunt that causes me to remember that he has been by my side this entire time. I watch, frozen in the chaos, as he works a small, cannon-like machine that spits explosive grenades which detonate upon contact and inflict far more damage to the hovercrafts than my arrows ever could. Whether or not it is the reflection from the explosions glittering in his eyes, I cannot tell, but his joy of being here, in the heat of battle, is unmistakable. I continue to watch him from the corner of my eye as I use up the rest of my arrows.

We fight like this, Gale, myself, and Paylor standing side by side in silent resilience, until all at once, the fighting ceases. The hovercrafts have vanished, leaving behind only irreparable damage to prove that they were ever here in their wake. Besides the ringing in my ear, I hear nothing but the sound of silence. I take a tentative step forward and allow myself to peer over the edge of the roof. I gasp in horror at the sight below me.

The streets are unrecognizable, as if someone with a crimson paintbrush has paraded through the town. Bodies of all genders and ages lay lifeless, strewn about on the ground, and they have multiplied in drastic terms since I have last wandered these streets. If I even attempted to find the red-headed girl, i would never be successful.

All of their lifeless eyes seem to be on me.

I barely notice that my vision is blurring again, and that my breath has settled into a jagged, harried pattern. My body is heated with rage as I realize that District Eight, like my home in District Twelve, is no longer.

The last thing I remember is shouting something incoherent with a voice that barely sounds like my own before exhaustion and anxiety take over, send me stumbling backward into Gale's arms, and cause my world to go black.

* * *

I wake to the familiar ceiling of our hovercraft's hospital, which is quickly replaced with Haymitch's scowl.

"You're an idiot. You do realize that, right?" he spits viciously, but there is no mistaking the relief layered beneath his harsh words. His breath is saturated with whiskey. I am suddenly erect, desperately grasping for my torso to find the familiar safe harbor of my baby bump yet again.

"Kid's fine," Haymitch assures me, still frowning. My thumb gently strokes my stomach as I finally allow myself to exhale. "Took a flock of doctors to clear out all of the shit you inhaled to make sure of it, but that baby refuses to give up. Just like its idiot mother."

"I couldn't just sit there and let the rest of those people perish, Haymitch. I had to fight…"

"You didn't _have _to do anything, Katniss. The District was doomed from the moment the hovercrafts flew in." He continues to pace angrily about the room, knocking over whatever he can get his hands on. "Sometimes, you have to accept that you can't fix every problem with this rebellion. People are going to die, people are going to sacrifice themselves, and you can't save every single one of them by yourself. You're a person, too. And you're a _pregnant _person. You have limitations. But no, you don't get that, because nothing's too big of a match for the Mockingjay, not even pregnancy. She can do whatever she wants. She's immune to death! Her baby is immune to death! She's the MOCKINGJAY, DAMMIT."

"I'm sorry," I mutter among his string of sarcasm, fiddling with the sheets of my hospital cot. Haymitch falls silent at my quick apology, a look of pure stun on his face that he is able to get me to back down so quickly.

"I don't know what came over me out there," I continue. "I should have stayed back with you and listened to Paylor. Sometimes, I forget that it's not just me who's at risk anymore. I was too busy thinking about the families in Eight that I failed to remember that I have a family of my own. I'm an idiot. I'm sorry."

"Well," Haymitch finally drawls, "at least you can admit it."

"I'm glad the baby's okay," I blurt out. Tears are suddenly splattering onto my lap against my will as my hands wrap protectively around my child. "If anything happened to it, I—I…"

"I know," Haymitch finishes. "I'm glad it's okay too, Sweetheart."

"I'm sorry," I choke out again, apologizing more to my Little Bean than to anyone else. Had I lost this child, whatever is left of me would have surely broken. I think of the old woman, who died still carrying the agony that comes with no longer carrying a child. Without the baby, I would have nothing left to hold onto. Haymitch is seated again, perched at my side and swaying uncomfortably as he makes no attempt at hiding the way he wracks his brain for ways to comfort me.

"Look, it isn't all that bad. Once you and Hawthorne fled the scene, Cressida and Messalla thought it would be _brilliant_ to join you two so that they could capture some footage of you in action."

Now, it is my turn to be shocked. "What?"

"They filmed all of it, every single bit of you shooting those arrows into the sky. It looks—"

"Pathetic?" I finish, certain that my desperate attempts to take down a Capitol hovercraft with a sheath of arrows appeared comical to those standing by. Haymitch rolls his eyes.

"I was gonna say amazing, Smartass. You may be an idiot, but you're a fearless idiot, and it shows. Whatever message Snow was trying to send by killing off a hospital, you fired right back at it with your own message. Of course, the outburst at the end was a nice touch. Just what we needed. Cressida barely had to do any editing…"

"Wait, what outburst?" I ask, jumping on his words. Haymitch smirks, as if he already knows I would wake up filled with questions and barely any memory of the events that followed the attack.

"Why don't you see for yourself?"

He wanders over to a small screen and a projector set up in the corner of the room. With the flip of a single switch, my face fills the screen. The hospital still stands tall in the first shot. I see a barely recognizable version of myself, smiling like a fool as if I am numb to the pain of the patients around me, and I am disgusted. I see the old woman telling me to hold on before she passes away, her death destined to be seen by millions.

Suddenly, the music in the propo shifts from a lilting, quiet tune to a fast paced action score. I am huddled under the barricade, face flickering with rage as I debate my decision to flee. Moments later I am standing on the rooftop beside Paylor and Gale, relentlessly firing at the hovercrafts. Fire swirls around me, threatens to engulf me, but I pay no mind to it. My heart is set on one goal: bringing the hovercrafts, and the Capitol down. It is evident even from yards away, where Messalla had been filming.

The battle ends, and I step out into a clearer line of vision. The camera zooms in on my face, and once again, the look of pure fight is etched in my features as in I take in the sight of the dead bodies. I raise my limp arms into the air, turn my face toward the sky, and shout:

"Fire is catching! And if we burn, you burn with us!"

The screen goes black. I would be lying if I said I am not moved by the handy work Cressida has done to make me look braver than I will ever feel I am.

"And there you have it. The propo has already been sent to Beetee to broadcast to the Capitol. You'll have Snow shitting his pants by midnight," Haymitch states, his tone suddenly lighthearted as he powers off the screen and leaves the room.

My mind, however, is still replaying those words. Over and over again, like a broken record.

_If we burn, you burn with us._

The words strike a powerful chord with me. Perhaps because in that moment, I finally believed in the cause I was fighting for. I have seen, displayed on screen, the power we revolutionaries have to make people who don't believe in me, in the cause, want to stand up and fight.

I know this is true because I have managed to convert myself into a believer. If I can sway myself, I can surely sway a nation, right?

Exhaustion takes over yet again, and as I drift off to sleep, I repeat the words of my new found mantra yet again:

_If we burn, you burn with us_.

* * *

**A/N: Hello! So sorry for such a long wait for this chapter, but school was absolutely insane as the semester wound down and I barely had time to sit down! All excuses aside, I finally am on summer break and I have a bunch of free time to write, and as promised, I plan to finish what I have started! I should get the next chapter up by the end of the week. In the meantime, I want to thank you all for continuing to review and support this story even when I was a busy bee and couldn't get to it! Feel free to continue doing so, pretty please! I LOVE hearing what you have to say in your reviews! Thanks again and till next time!**

**-ILoVeWicked**


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

**Chapter 13**

**Gale**

Thrilling. It's the only word that can describe the day's events.

I lay on my back in my lumpy cot as we fly back to District Thirteen, tossing a small rubber ball. I watch it rocket upward, suspend itself in the air, and fall, plummeting toward me like a bomb. I catch the ball in my hand while it's still in mid-descent, curling my fingers around its spherical circumference and squeezing it tightly, until it disappears completely in my fist. I smile, pretending that I am crushing it, and I continue to repeat this routine over and over as I replay the action of the day.

Other than my escape from District Twelve, the attack on Eight today has gone down in my personal record as my first battle. To see the way the Capitol hovercrafts retreated so quickly, their plans botched by the brave soldiers on the warehouse roof, was simply thrilling. The fighting has finally begun, and the wretched Capitol has finally gotten a taste of what the rebels are capable of. It's finally happening.

And I get to say that I am a part of it. I get to call myself a rebel who is helping to bring the Capitol down.

Of course, having the Mockingjay as my best friend is helpful to my personal cause.

I shake my head and grunt in frustration, tossing the ball against the wall of my bedroom. I try not to think of a world in which I am not so closely linked to Katniss, a world in which my involvement in the war is minimal, a world in which my importance is insignificant and I am not worthy enough to be a part of the cause simply because I hold no relevance. A world in which I do not feel blatantly used because I am the "cousin" of Katniss Everdeen.

This is why, I remind myself, I continue to work extra hours in the weaponry room, continue to train and utilize the facilities my communicuff allows me to use, continue to push my way into the heart of battle, into the limelight. I refuse to be ranked by my association to Katniss. I will work to earn my communicuff…at least until the pesky thought of simply having one because Coin was recognizing my leverage with Katniss over my actual bravery dissipates and I finally feel self-assured in my abilities.

An abrupt knock on the door interrupts my thoughts. I groggily check my watch—three o'clock in the morning—and stumble around in my cramped quarters as I try to navigate the door in the darkness.

On the other side of the door stands a frantic Mockingjay, having fled the hospital quarters. Her eyes are wide and wet with oncoming tears, desperately locking with mine as her hair continues to fall from her braid in fraying strands and her hands grip onto her stomach while she shakes uncontrollably.

"Gale," she whispers, "something's wrong."

I blink in confusion. She hasn't given me much to work with.

"Katnip, are you talking about a nightmare?" I conjecture. The nightmares, as I recall, are not my area of expertise. That is Mellark's territory, a cavern of her mind that I will never be able to coax her out of, no matter where he is.

She shakes her head wildly. "No, no, I mean with the baby. Something's wrong. I—I felt, I felt something, it was like…"

She doesn't get the opportunity to finish her sentence, because whatever is happening to her happens again and sends her dashing over to sit on my cot, gripping its edges until her knuckles turn white in the darkness of the room. How she can go from fearlessly tacking the feat of Capitol bombers on a District Eight rooftop in one moment to helplessly rocking back and forth on my bed in the next moment, I'll never know. Motherhood has a funny way in bringing out even the most fickle fears in women.

She begins rambling incessantly. "There it is again! It's like a twitching muscle in my stomach. Sometimes it's fast, like this weird tickling feeling, but sometimes it feels like I'm being poked from the inside. It's scaring me. I think something's gone wrong with the pregnancy. Oh, no. I may be dying. Or worse, the baby may be dying, and…why the _hell _are you laughing?"

I have three siblings. A large part of my upbringing had to do with helping my mother out with three pregnancies while my father was away at the mines. I may be no expert on the inner workings of Katniss' neurotic mind, but anyone who's been around a pregnant woman during her second trimester knows exactly what is going on.

"You're not dying," I clarify through fits of laughter. She attempts to grimace at me before the deadly phenomenon she speaks of takes over again and sends her body into protective mode. She rolls up the thin cotton of her shirt to reveal the skin of her bump to do a more thorough examination. Shrouded in the shadows of the moonlight, it appears bigger, more obvious than it ever was before.

I can make out the distress in her silver eyes. She is truly terrified that something is happening to her baby. Damn, I muse, as if this is brand new information, she really cares about this kid.

"How do you know?" she chokes out, voice quivering with terror, never pealing her gaze away from her child.

"Because Rory, Vick, and Posy all did the same thing to my mother."

She is unamused by my vague response. Reaching out the in the darkness, she grabs my hand and places it on her bare stomach. It takes all of my energy not to reflexively coil away from the contact, the most intimate contact we have had in almost a year.

But the feeling of a slight, evident prodding against my palm keeps me there, turns the corners of my frown up into a dopey grin, and springs tears of my own into my eyes.

"See? You feel that? Is it, I don't know, _exploding_, or something?" Katniss practically screeches. She peers up at me in my moment of private euphoria and cocks her head. "Now what? Why are you smiling? This is no smiling matter, Gale Hawthorne. So help me, if you don't tell me what's going on, I'll—"

"Katniss, the baby is _fine_. It's kicking, okay? It's perfectly normal, it happens to everyone, and if you calm the hell down and realize how exciting it is that the baby's moving for the first time, it can be really beautiful."

Her mouth forms a small "o", no further explanation necessary. She brings her hands back down to lay gently over my hand, and together, we feel the pressure of the child's acrobatics routine from beneath her skin.

Katniss' laugh is unlike I've ever heard it before, filled with the musicality of uninhibited joy and unconditional adoration. It sounds foreign. It sounds gorgeous. It brings out the beauty in her glow, which is blinding even in this darkened room.

"Wow," she breathes, "it never ceases to amaze me, this baby."

I laugh as the child responds with another fluttering kick against our touch, her hand and stomach sending an electrical current that passes between my own palm, which I soon remember is resting between mother and child.

"Yeah, me too."

"It's like it's saying 'Hello' to us!" Katniss exclaims with another uncharacteristic giggle.

"I bet this squirt can't wait to meet everyone," I add on, completely caught up in the excitement now. I begin stroking the area of the baby's actions with my fingers delicately. Katniss' fingers follow suit, grazing her torso lightly as she coos in a strangely pitched voice how much she cannot wait to meet her 'Little Bean'.

There is no mistaking her glee. She is thrilled, just as thrilled as I was to be on that rooftop earlier this evening. This child is her personal cause, and to her, this child is a greater cause than any revolution.

Her hands find my own and we both pause in our caressing of the baby. I watch as her fingers lace with mine and cause feathery prickles of my own accord to rise up my arm and rush into my brain, igniting it in her flames. My cheeks heat up in a crimson flush.

Those eyes are on me again, locked with mine just as tightly as our hands are, clasped together against her swollen belly. I search those never-ending gray whirlpools for a buoy to grab hold of, any semblance of neutrality that I can latch onto to remind myself that she just wants to be friends, but I cannot find it. She looks to _me _now with adoration—betwixt with a tinge of lust meant specifically for me in the heat of our moment—and I want more than anything to be swallowed by those eyes, to take her tear-soaked face in my hands and bring those pursed lips against my own in an attempt to finally collapse the barrier between us.

As if reminding us of the third party, we feel the pulsating of the baby's kick against our hands again.

I am instantly snapped back to reality.

The child wrestling beneath my palm is not mine. As much joy as being a part of this milestone brings me, the feeling of getting to experience new life for the first time is not my milestone to take part in. This is a moment that is meant for a family. For a child's mother _and _father to revel in. When thinking of this tableau, the "cousin" never makes the cut.

Now, it is Katniss who seems to read my distress. "Are you okay?" she asks immediately, her voice still warped in my mind to match the baby-talking she had been doing earlier. I rip my hands from her grasp and stumble backward, distancing myself from her and her child as best as I can. Embarrassment floods her features as she quickly covers her stomach back up.

"You should go," I state. "It's late. You've got a big day tomorrow, with the propo being broadcasted and all."

She wordlessly slinks off of the cot as I avert my gaze to avoid being enveloped by her hurt and dejection. "Oh. Okay. Well, thanks for helping me figure out that I'm not dying, Gale," she says earnestly as she pads over to the door.

Her mood is so dichotomous with what it had been moments before, I know I am responsible for the sudden shift. On a night where she should be celebrating, I've invited her to my own pity-party.

"Katnip," I say quickly, turning to her just as she is about to escape.

"Yes?" she asks. Her back, hunched over in defeat, is still facing me, but the hope lingering in her voice is unmistakable.

"Uhm, congratulations. That baby kicking…it's really amazing."

She turns to face me, protruding stomach back in my line of vision and making it impossible for me to look away. Her eyes wander up from their fixation on the floor to meet mine, and I can read her guilt immediately.

We both know what we have both unintentionally just done to Peeta Mellark.

"Thank you," she whispers quickly before scurrying out of the room.

I flop down on my cot, head buried in my hands, just as she slams the door shut. I can still feel the ghost of the baby's magical, fluttering kicks against the center of my palms, rapping against my head and drilling their way into my mind until they are all I can think of.

Hastily, I retrieve the ball from under my cot and settle back into my calming routine of tossing it into the air in an attempt to rid my hands' memories of that sensation with the previously familiar sensation of crushing and destruction. Within one toss, I fail to catch the ball due to my blurry vision. The ball lands directly in my face, with a painful smack in the middle of my forehead that sends me reeling.

The ball drops to the floor, but not before knocking down several knickknacks around the room as it ricochets about, before it settles with a conclusive _plop _that sounds a lot like a bomb exploding.

I watch the ball roll away, and with it, I watch my thrill roll away as well—both just out of my reach.

* * *

**A/N: I know it's short, but I wrote it out in a day and decided that since I made you wait way too long for the last chapter that I'd just post this one quickly! Hope you enjoyed! I know it seems like a lot of the same characters' POVs right now, but the next few chapters will bring in some fresh perspectives and some you have been briefly introduced to (ie next chapter look forward to FINALLY hearing from Finnick), so there's something to get hype about! Thanks again for the positive feedback in your reviews! I'd still love to continue hearing even more about what you have to say so keep those reviews coming! The more feedback I get, the quicker I can write these chapters!**

**-ILoVeWicked**


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